halcycrainâ:
Haley rarely visited the Faraday Gallery. She appreciated art but sometimes it felt unattainable. Like it wasnât 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. Thatâs 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. âAny of those yours?â She asked, genuinely interested if this was one of the featured artists. âI donât mean to assume. Itâs just that most of the pieces here are directly linked to the town. So most times youâll either find the artists here or - well - old or sad people.â
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In a lot of ways it was unobtainable for him as well. His mind didnât 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 couldnât quite figure out. He understood it in itâs complexity but not in itâs 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 heâs seen a healthy amount of artists in his travels. Somehow, he didnât 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. âI 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 wouldnât need to end up here of all places moping in front of oil paintings. But I do see your point.â He offers a smile because maybe he was moping a little bit. âI 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.â He pauses briefly, brown eyes warm. âAnd you? Are you an artist, old, or sad?â












