Nathaniel Kramer sits under the flaming lamp in his study with vigorous and passionate movements of his hand, as if they've their own minds.
The strokes of paint are vivid in their language, the blue as dark as the night sky lacing the figure that is seen running with a sea of windows on the sides, seemingly afraid of the people watching
The yellow street lamp shines on the single silhouette trying to assure her, but she runs , faster,
you can almost hear her dark heels tapping faster only by looking at those conversing strokes,
The rear end of the page has a shadowed face drawn, watching her with the paradoxical accuracy and equal vague , both working their charm on the eyes of the heart itself,
With every touch to the paper, the brush reels forward with excitement and just when you think there can be no more, the splashes and lines makes the work almost edible,
Kramer's steely blue eyes like a hawk, eye the white blanks and fill it with a dark vibrance that is unique to his art.
With the eerily beautiful scene in work, you'd think he would've invented the popular glitch effect years later.
"Aah!"
A single blood drop falls on the paper as the edge of the brush cuts through skin.
He looked up in the soft light of the mirror,
He's wearing a scarf on his head to keep the unruly locks in place, a cut on his left eyebrow always reminding him of the yesterday he can never escape; a sharp thin nose, a bit crooked, the only thing on his body resembling his true self remotely, according to him,
"Why would you think that? A heart is always the one reminding a man of his character, not his nose !" his mom said to the 10 year old
"No mom, it's too soft when I want it hard and tough when I want it gentle, it never listens to me, "
He smiled at the memory, well a smile actually lights up the whole face and he wasn't capable of it anymore so it was more of a smooth upturn of his mouth.
He's wearing a dark brown velvet robe loose on his arms but fitting to his figure, a contrast gold chain around his neck.
He's studying the blood on his hands,
he's always had a fascination with it, not the psychotic drive or anything but a mere artists weakness. He'd never seen a colour this rich yet natural, shining yet eerily pale, dark but also light , changing, as if reflecting the beholder's thoughts,
It was a dull dark today,
Just like yesterday,
And the day before,
It was a shining red last the day he had fell on the ground from his bicycle, his mother running to him, his tiny white socks stained red.
He imagined it would be a little rich today considering the little drive he felt today, after the encounter with the woman.
Hazel.
Ofcourse, he didn't know her name yet, but there she was, like sudden haze settled over him, when he thought he had clarity all his life.
Although this time the haze clears, it would be a different clarity, after I get to know her, he thought.
He was a renowned painter with strokes unique to him, but it was the first time in a long while he felt alive painting those wild locks, getting familiar with each passing shade of brown; if you knew her, you could even smell the whiff of her vanilla essence in that portrait unveiling.
