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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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.

I don't think I've ever loved anyone.

[This is something he has really, truly tried to figure out. It remains a mystery to him, the same way trying to remember what 'orange' looks like is a mystery.]

How many have you?

Then what do you think love means?

[He's very insightful about color, about emotion. She's curious whether his ideas about love are as poignant.]

All of them. At least, I began by loving them. That can change.

They say love is selfless; I don't believe that. I think that love can give birth to something, and then turn its attention to something so distant that it can walk away and never once regret it, because love is strongest in the moment. I think that love is a magnet, that it gathers as many things to it as possible, and only sometimes has its efforts reciprocated. I think love is easily wounded, but if the lover's affection is balanced with self-loathing, a person can go on for an entire lifetime making excuses for every insult and every slap.

I think that love is vindictive if it's shallow; if slighted, it will do anything in its power to bring the other person's mind back to it. If love is deep, I think that a person could drowned before they risked damaging their lover. But even deep love can turn fickle, because love is never steady, just like nothing--not the tides, not the wind--in nature is steady.

[That said, he looks at her and shrugs a shoulder, accustomed to people having tuned him out after the third or fourth sentence. When he talks it's almost always so that he can hear himself--or so that he can gauge how bad his hearing is at the moment.]

What causes your love to change?

[She listens. There's truth in what he says, and, she's unsurprised to find, more understanding than most men and women who have loved her demonstrate. It isn't flattering, that description. But then again, in Bleu's experience, love can be an ugly and destructive thing.

For her and for them.]

You've learned more as an observer than a lover.

[This part, at least, is relatively mundane, and Bleu shrugs back at him.]

Have you ever been fascinated with someone who later turned out to be a complete dick?

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