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[Spam, OTA, in the art room]

[Piper is working on various projects, flitting from one to another, all through the night. Some are sculptures; some are paintings. Some, well, it's hard to tell what he's using as a medium.

If you enter the art room you might be used as a new addition to his collection of subjects. Or feel free to peek at what he's working on.

ooc: some of his new/finished art projects will be included in the comments, soon as I'm home from work.]

[Private to ARTHAS]

I have a feeling you've heard the Warden talk before.

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Very insightful.

What day is it?

I don't know. [With an amused undertone of, 'does it matter?']

You've been here longer than I have so you probably have rules for your wardens. Right?

The deal I make with my real wardens is that I don't ask much of you, but when I do ask, you do it.

So find out what day it is. I've been asleep.

Edited 2015-06-01 03:56 (UTC)

What calendar do you prefer?

[He's got a lot of them filed away.]

In exchange for your deal, what do I get on my end?

You don't get the rest of the wardens on your head when I break this ship in half.

The regular calendar. Don't be cute.

Mmm. The other wardens can do whatever they want. [He dun care.]

It's Friday. [It's not, but he genuinely has no idea what day it is, and one is much the same as the rest to him.]

If you say something that isn't the date, I hang up.

[He looks at him a moment, considering that, weighing things out.]

The last I checked, it was a Friday.

[He looks back at something he's sculpting]

Have you ever had a concussion?

[Click.]

[Helena, although she decorates her own cabin with her own type of art, rarely actually goes into the art room. Occasionally, she does need to pick up more supplies, so she slips into the art room quietly, intending to find charcoal and paper and whatever else takes her fancy and leave. Her own brand of drawing feels too personal for doing in public, because it's more trying to work her feelings out through her hands than anything else.

There haven't been many people in there on the few occasions she's ventured in before. And they certainly haven't had anything like the amount of work Piper's got going on. She still doesn't really intend to stick around for long, but his work catches her eye...]

[He looks up from pushing his fingers into a lump of clay and watches her, until ash drops off the end of his cigarette. He grinds it out and straightens, never quite looking away from her.]

Looking for something?

[Jimmy is not all that into art. He doesn't get it, and he hadn't really taken any time in his life to start getting it- with one exception.

He's not sure why he walks into the art room (boredom, probably, grinding down after a bad night's sleep and a long morning in the kitchen preparing breakfast), but he walks in when Piper is painting. The fumes, at least, make him extinguish his cigarette the moment he walks in. He pretends he's not watching for a minute, and then walks up a little closer.]

My wife used to paint. [Apropos of nothing, seemingly, but his voice is soft and he seems hesitant in a way that he generally never seems- Piper might notice that, even if they don't know each other that well.]

['Used to' generally means dead. And if she's not, it's more than likely Jimmy is. So he nods, doesn't pry...at least not immediately.]

I believe everyone has to have some outlet. There's a part of us that gets restless and has to be vented.

[Which is followed by the unspoken question, expressed only through his expression: What's yours?]

[In this case, both of them are. Jimmy sits down on a nearby table, keeping his eyes on the painting after briefly glancing at Piper's face.]

She always said she felt most like herself when she painted. I don't think I ever really understood that.

[But he wants to, clearly. The unspoken question goes unanswered, because he doesn't have an answer that's palatable to new company: drinking, violence. Nothing like art.]

[He silently offers him a paintbrush, still dripping with green watercolor.]

A lot of artists paint in blood--among other things. Blood is what some people understand best, especially around here.

[He accepts it, reluctantly, keeping it away from himself so his suit doesn't get messed up. It looks awkward- he feels awkward, and it shows.]

Drawing blood isn't an art form. It's just something you do.

[He finds a bit of paper to brace up, finds him a ragged plastic thing that he had considered using as a poncho for himself but his clothes are pretty ratty already.]

Art is about intent, for some people. And other people find art in doing nothing unusual at all.

Some philosophers believed that anything done in representation was the same as doing it in reality. If you stab at the canvas, it conveys the same message as if you had stabbed a pig. Or person.

And what do you believe? [He accepts the smock, but doesn't put it on yet- he's too self-conscious, too aware of what he looks like and what he wants to be seen as.]

It depends on the day. Today, I'm very much a literal person, despite what I'm doing. I know I'm only molding metal and clay, I know it's only what I perceive. On another day, I could almost believe I was bending a soul.

[He jams a tool into the sculpture, sudden and with unmistakable violence. If it had been a person, he would have just severed the liver.]

[he understands this better than painting- it's more hands-on, it needs less imagination, and he doesn't have a lot of that to begin with. He puts down the brush and looks at what Piper's doing.]

What do you prefer?

I try not to get too attached to what I make. So I'd have to say I like the days like today better.

[He half-smiles, and hands over a tool, nods at the sculpture; go ahead, stab it.]

[He takes the tool, flickering his eyes at Piper's expression before slowly, slowly sinking the tool into the sculpture. It ends up just below where the sternum would have been, and he looks at that spot with a small frown.]

How long have you been doing this?

[he pulls out, equally slowly, and then smoothes his thumb over the clay- good as new, nothing to see.]

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