self-written

Haley rarely visited the Faraday Gallery. She appreciated art but sometimes it felt unattainable. Like it wasn’t meant for people like her. A mindset that went against her better judgment and everything she was taught as a little girl. Her grandfather used to tell her that people like them built the foundation of the town and when she was a teen and seemingly everyone turned against her family, she held on to those words. That’s how she found herself strolling the halls, quietly, slowly, and taking in the different forms of beauty surrounding her. So much talent gathered in one place, it was hard to imagine all the stories behind the pieces. But she was only there for one.

Finding herself in the right corner of the Gallery, she spotted the familiar picture frame immediately. An oil painting of the lighthouse. A painting she admired as a little kid and then later visited here after her grandfather donated it to the Gallery. A day she remembered vividly and fondly. One of the rare good ones. Walking further, she stopped in front of the piece and heard a sigh over her shoulder. Turning slightly, the man seemed to fit into his surroundings like any other piece of art around them. Still and yet eye-catching. “Any of those yours?” She asked, genuinely interested if this was one of the featured artists. “I don’t mean to assume. It’s just that most of the pieces here are directly linked to the town. So most times you’ll either find the artists here or - well - old or sad people.”

---

In a lot of ways it was unobtainable for him as well. His mind didn’t work like that. He admired it and had a healthy appreciation for it but he knew the best he could do was stick figures and color inside the lines if he had a good amount of patience. Lai had grown up around a lot of art. Despite his parents being patrons of the fine arts there was no real encouragement for him to go down that route. He always understood his place and when he had stepped out of that, it had severed what little relationship there had been. It was safe to say, most things Lai could be bitter about, although it had no correlation with his own misfortunate. In a lot of way, art was like a math problem he couldn’t quite figure out. He understood it in it’s complexity but not in it’s theory. And that was fine. His choose professional had a very solid set of equally complex rules. Win some, lose some.

Lai has met a handful of people in passing since arriving in Fordbay. In truth, he could have done a lot better with easing himself into a social life but things were complicated right now. He had a plethora of things on his mind so people tended be quite low on the list. His smile cracks though. Did he look like an artist? Not to stereotype but he’s seen a healthy amount of artists in his travels. Somehow, he didn’t think he managed to have the look. Lai shakes his head after a moment. Old or sad? Was he either of those things? He shakes his head again. “I would like to think I am in my prime -- lord forbid I find a grey hair one of these days, that sound really send me to the precipice of mayhem -- and I have a decent amount of coping skills so I wouldn’t need to end up here of all places moping in front of oil paintings. But I do see your point.” He offers a smile because maybe he was moping a little bit. “I came here because I needed a spark of something but I think I got it wrong. No amount of beautiful things can spur me to getting my shit together with my own creativity. Consider the vibe check a fail.” He pauses briefly, brown eyes warm. “And you? Are you an artist, old, or sad?”

WHO:Open. WHEN: Afternoon. WHERE: Old Port, likely somewhere near the docks. TAGGING: @fordbaycontent·

          “Hey, you seen an angry twenty-four year old storm this way?” Jeremy’s voice was gruff, showing signs of both his exhaustion and worn patience. In some ways he could accept that he was a bit in the wrong. It was hard to step out of that role of being something more than an older brother, something closer to fatherly, when it came to Derek. When their mother passed, Jeremy had to take over caring for his younger siblings and at the time he hadn’t been equipped for that. Either way, their conversation at least a half an hour prior had turned from easy going to a near row when Derek’s twenty-something angst at the world showed itself. “He’s about yay high,” a hand flattened just slightly above his shoulder, “ and was likely cursing under his breath about what a fucking asshole I am.”

The idea was to get inspired. Or at least, that’s what he has himself convinced of when he decides to settle down in the remote and random location. If it were possible, Lai would have literally found a place that was the most distance from his family and settled down there without a doubt. For now, Fordbay was that to him -- no matter how much he tried to convince the people around it it was merely for inspiration for his work -- it was a reprieve from the expectations in his personal life. His work had been untouched for months to be fair. He wrote a sentence and promptly pushed it aside for another few months. Rinse and repeat. The point was he was not producing enough work for his agent to get off his back and stop emailing him frantically on his whereabouts. The idea was to get enough muse for anything at this point to be able to produce something so he could buy himself more time. With the dry spell he was having, he calculated that if he even wrote a chapter or two or nonsense he would be able to get a few more months question free. 

Lai was a writer, not a strategist. Granted, his reasoning and scheming might not be the best but Faraday Gallery had some really beautiful art. If anything could amp up his creative juices certainly it could be vicariously living through other creative beings. After a wander about it becomes apparent he is not going to somehow soak in the auras of the creators who poured their heart and souls into their walk. There is a defeatist sigh when he sinks to a bench head thrown back as he tries to come up with a legitimate excuse to tell his publishing agent. He broke his finger and therefore couldn’t possibly be expected to write?