Jude, slack on his tattered stool, perfectly embodied Edward Hopper’s 1914 ‘Soir Bleu’ with his void expression, cigarette dangling limp off his bottom lip like a fainted goat. He’d set up a ramshackle stall along Portobello Market, a number of celebrity sketches tacked up in display to entice tourists – a dead Margaret Thatcher suspended from marionette strings mid robotic corpse dance had actually seemed to do the exact opposite, not that he’d taken it down – and had actually just finished etching his latest creation. When he removed the tack and handed the portrait over, the man on the stool blinked in utter disbelief. “What the fuck is this?” Itching at his tear duct and successfully staining the bridge of his nose with pencil, Jude only offered a shrug. Whipping the page around, his unsatisfied patron shook the drawing wildly in the face of the next passing person, finally unveiling it’s contents: Ewan McGregor, in full Obi Wan get-up, uncanny as the day it was filmed if it weren’t for his inexplicably bald head, the only similarity between the two. “Free of charge, man. Free of fuckin’… charge,” was all Jude gave in response, lazily clicking a finger before shooting the world’s most miserably dejected gun his way. Ripping up the drawing and catapulting it at the stall, Jude glanced about as the pieces fluttered like a flock of migrating birds, careless to the fact his customer had stormed away. “Cor, like a fuckin’… clown just came, over here. Confetti all over – over all my fuckin’… wares. He’s an animal.” Cigarette bobbing with every slowly strung syllable, Jude squinted up at whoever had come to join the scene, sunlight infringing his eyelashes. “Think he fuckin’… loved it, don’t you? Bit, uh… moving, actually. Felt a stir.” @furorestarters
THE FIRST HINT OF EXCITEMENT in an otherwise dispassionate excursion , but of course , ludmila’s revelry is hard to differentiate from her resting state of indifference . she’s barely taken in the ( internal AHEM ) artwork before it is destroyed and the incensed patron is marching away . a shame , really -- perhaps an explanation will do . “ hm , ” she had ignored the somewhat depressing scene on her way in , a familiar face in such settings too often means talk of the weather or even local politics she figures she befits privileged to play ignorant to . now she takes in jude’s side hustle with a slow scan and quirked brow , “ CARICATURE ? ” she’s not sure if that’s accurate and she’s not really worried , but she’s taken back to a particularly banal family holiday in ‘ the us of a ’ and a boardwalk artist’s interpretation of the doom and gloom brady bunch , accurately depicting her father’s subsurface rage and her own fore / five head in all it’s glory . “ i suppose that’s the reaction you were going for , no ? ” the reference of the previous sketch is lost on her , but she’ll give in to a smile for a few of the more dreadful ones -- engaged to the point she sets the hideous salt and pepper shakers ( picked up as a horrible future birthday gift for maryv , or lana , or someone ) down amongst jude’s WARES to get a closer look at one . “ a man of many talents ... ” it’s not meant to be condescending , but who is SHE to tone police herself ? “ would you give me elvira breasts ? ”
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