@taorerou
THE STARK WHITE OF THE WALLS bring out the black of the canvases; rich ropes of flat darkness caught tight across pale chests, across bronze arms and oak backs. as the room expands, leading further inward before becoming a maze of complex corners and puzzles, the images grow twisted and darker, something sousuke aizen was famed for in the most recent reviews of his work. the doorway led into a sea of cherry pink and lime green, the sweetness of grass. the kindness of trees. nothing sinister merely traditional gardens and ambient scenes. really, quite the hypocrisy as far as art went.Â
a couple nodded their heads towards the man whose hands had forged such works, his glasses shimmering beneath the dim-lighting overhead and his brown hair curling messily about his cheeks. he wore entirely black; a smart jacket over a buttoned shirt with pants to match the sleek of his shoes. smart. but the same shade as the bondage of his paintings. he stands out against the spaces of the walls, where the paintings part and the displays possess gaps. occasionally, a writer will approach him and ask him about a particular piece.
â what were you thinking of when you drew this? â they gesture to the image of a man suspended nude, his chest encased in red rope and black satin ribbons, his arms dripping blood shaded grey.Â
â my mother. â he replies, with an expression so calm that the writer is unsure whether to laugh or vomit. sousuke moves on, greeting more that enter with a calm â good evening. â before nodding his head and walking away. already, heâs made enough money to live well for the next half a year. a highlight spot in tokyoâs busiest art distract was perhaps the final grasp at income before he could quietly return to a life of cigarettes and late night reading. he brushes his chin as he walks back round to the entrance. his hands smell of forgotten ash.
he notices a lonely man, hair of sunshine yellow tucked into a messy style. he seems so unlike the students of his gallery, so unlike the journalists scribbling on the backs of notepads and the mere art lovers who peered with their noses first at his art. he seems, lost perhaps. yes, lost. the way he looks around and seems so unsure of what to make of whatâs before his eyes. the naked flesh, the vibrant red on skin, cutting and holding. the hands seizing the throat of the loverâs neck. sousukeâs eyes find themselves following that man, eyeing him as he moves between each piece like a ship wishing to dock.Â
â yellow silk would suit you best, if were you a model for one of my paintings. â he decides to whisper, standing slightly behind the man and tucking his hands beneath his arms. â to match your hair. â he smiles, calm and natural. he bleeds the very charisma of an artist, he knows. heâs famous but not so famous that he is recognised. heâs rich but not rich enough to find reason to move from his shitty apartment downtown. heâs attractive, but not enough to waste his time on people that mean nothing. well, not anymore. there were times, of course, but he finds himself drawn to the possibilities of something fun as opposed to something standard and simple.Â
â well, what do you think of my work? âÂ
you arenât sure what brought you here to begin with-- art exhibits arenât usually the type of things to pull you, to draw you in, and really.. this one wasnât any different. though the feel of it was different than the others youâd attended; for obvious reasons, actually. you certainly do have to wonder how things like this are considered art, but you yourself donât have the most creative bones in your body so you suppose you donât have much of an opinion to begin with.
things like this were considered to be more.. well. you wonât go there. weâll leave it at the fact that youâd wondered whether youâd walked into an art exhibit or an adult hobby store. âhobbyâ used very, very lightly.
a hand lifts to tuck a stray strand of long blond hair behind an ear as you move from painting to painting, tired brown hues side-eyeing the works from the side. arms cross over your chest in thought and you linger by one of them for a little longer, trying to decide whether itâd be a better idea to leave; well, no, youâd already decided itâd definitely be a better idea to leave. you really do wonder why youâd been drawn in here in the first place--
thereâs a knee-jerk response of flinching away, to the side some with shoulders hunched, at the sudden voice directly behind you. itâs barely loud enough to even be qualified as anything but a whisper, and youâre even surprised youâd heard him; if he hadnât been so close, you wouldnât have.Â
âyellow silkâ is what you hear first. âone of my paintingsâ, he says.
itâs a little surprising-- this isnât what youâd imagined when you thought about who was behind these. well, not that youâd given it much thought in the first place, but he really did not fit the description whatsoever. blond eyebrows raise a little and your head inclines, but you donât turn to face him, a shoulder raising in a halfhearted shrug at the sound of the question.Â
anyone would be curious, you guess.. but why single you out?
âshould i be thinkinâ anythinâ in particular?â you respond, eyes shifting from the side, to the painting and then to the side once more. you can see him from your peripheral, behind you, and for some reason.. itâs almost funny. âiâm not very interested in things like.. this,â an accentuated motion of your hand to the hardly âsafe for workâ painting in front of the two of you, âart, i mean.â
you figure you should specify.














