velocette | (no subject)

(no subject)

The first dyes the royals used, indigo and purple dyes, came from mollusks. But since a mollusk is [he holds up two fingers, barely apart] tiny, they had to fish millions of them to put out anything to sell. The whole city reeked of rotting sea food...that's on historical record. I mean every city then--well hygiene wasn't like it is now, every city was coated in waste. Worse than now. So for them to point out Tyre and say that city reeked...?

[He has a point. He's getting to it. Slowly.] We don't have a chance to fish much here, so I'll have to get creative. [He has a pile of objects in one corner, which is sometimes visible , especially when he pauses to light a cigarette]

Harvey, I've got the fish. They seem happier.

I need deeply colored objects--scraps, trash, whatever--but I can't... [a wan smile] It's not something I can figure out. Can't tell which of these is blue. [Which is a hint at a certain someone.]

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How. I'll find out the why on my own. [She likes that easy intimacy, strokes the back of his hand with her thumb.]

Nothing ever goes the way anyone dreams it will.

You draw it in slow, let it fill your lungs...if I go long enough between smokes, I can feel my heartbeat change with the first drag.

[He draws on the cigarette to show her, blows it out toward the leafy canopy.]

Does that mean you've never seen a dream fulfilled? Not even close? [From another person it would seem like a leading question perhaps, but from him it's almost the same curiosity of a historian.]

This is a skill you'll have to teach me.

[She hesitates, reaching for the cigarette again.]

No, some dreams come true. But never in the way you hope.

[He offers the cigarette to her, a crooked smile as well.]

Tell me a dream that went wrong.

Mine, or someone else's? [Accepting it, she lifts it to her lips and takes a slow, short drag this time. It's easier than the first breath, and as she exhales she notices a slight lightheaded feeling.
]

Have you ever heard of a man named Vincent van Gogh?

Yes...he signed all of his 'Vincent'.

[Considering he has never seen the paintings in all their color, that was the thing that stood out most to him: that amid all the little blocks and dabs of paint, the artist had signed his name in the same forthright, personal manner of a child.]

You do.

[Obviously he does and Bleu is surprised; Vincent was very talented, but had accomplished little fame or monetary success in her time, as she knew him.]

Do you know his story?

[He frowns, considering the question, before finally shaking his head.]

The things I've heard would be rude to believe without hearing from a better source.

[There's no better source than a muse, he's pretty sure. He smiles at her and squeezes her hand; go on.]

He was a passionate man. Mad, brilliant, talented -- he saw things no one else could. He wanted to show what he saw, and I believe he did.

But he died for it.

[He doesn't quite look at her as she speaks; instead he watches a low branch, and his expression is soft, like they're discussing a favorite cousin.]

What killed him?

[It's a very different question than 'how did he die'.]

A gunshot. [Her laugh is a little harsh. She regrets Vincent's murder, had been furious with the Colorman for pulling the trigger over his hidden painting.]

I knew him, of course. [She pauses for a long time. What she's about to reveal is dangerous, frighteningly true. It would be the second time in her existence, and she weighs the decision carefully.]

I loved him. And I know he loved me.

[He studies her, subconsciously leaning closer. This time, though, it's because he's intrigued and his hearing is unreliable. It's unusual to find any story he still cares about, so when one comes along, he'll be damned if he misses a word.]

Then you know who pulled the trigger?

[She looks past him for a moment, eyes still on him but gazing at something far away. Then she nods.

It wasn't me.

Have you ever...?

[It's such a surreal question to ask of her.]

What, shot someone?

Or killed, in some other way.

I have.

What did it look like?

[This isn't the poetic question from before. He's indifferent to death, be it murder or not, so he usually would have nodded and shrugged. How can you resist asking someone like Bleu about something so personal, though?]

Like death. Loss. Light fading away.

It's probably the same in gray.

...Maybe. I mostly wonder what mine looked like. Different at every angle, I suspect. [His little brother had been there; and the fish must have been, too, dying along with him. (What did death look like to a fish?) Cops, who knew what they saw.]

How did you meet Van Gogh?

They all are. What did it look like to you?

Through Cormon's studio, where he taught the young Impressionists. And through them as well.

But how? Did you- were you drawn to him? Is it a feeling you get, or just chance that you find them?

Drawn to them? Sure. I'm drawn to anyone passionate and talented, but there's nothing so unusual about that. That's all research and reputation; I have to know who they are to know them.

So it's actually possible, to know someone? It's always seemed like an illusion, a happy one, better than the tricks you see a magician bring to a birthday party. Most people barely know their own names..if you can't know yourself under your skin, how can anyone else?

You love them. You know them then.