The universe within my studio began to reveal itself to me.
The intoxication of lacquer can be overwhelming to the visitors I seldom have, opposed to the calming effect it unusually had on me. The wooden desk and stools held up several stacks of plastic plates I collected as disposable palettes, crinkled parchments and fountain pens, along with Chinese calligraphy sets, in a drawer tucked away. Cut out milk cartons were filled with broken chalks and brush bristles. Beside the glass panes was a solitude pot plant on a windowsill; its leaves appearing almost like they were grasping for more of the sun but preventing themselves from burning to death by hesitantly holding back. A ship in a bottle on top the mantelpiece had six small sails with a mermaid at the hull, staring out into the horizon unperturbed, as if she defined the discourse of the oceans herself, refusing to let the oceans define her. A finishing touch to such a mystical space was my apron- a work of art itself. Hung on a rack across the door, my smock was infused with slashes from excess paint, stained from dripping pigments. I dry brushed the apron with flicking drafts and prototypes of what would either become a masterpiece, or an abandoned thought. It would be impossible to assume that it had once been black, now conflagrated by extremities of colour.
I have always loved reading; the distinguishable scent of a new book, the sarcoline pages and the English Breakfast that was usually in my company. I had these vivid scenes forming in my mind that I had to keep a record of, in fear that these beautiful places would disappear the next morning.
Even the most brilliant of creators must have lost some of the best of their plans from being absentminded.
There is an equal greatness in art and literature; how what I read could be expressed in these hyper-realistic recreations with the right devotion and patience to my work, mundanely constructing fantastical realms with shades and tints. Those who saw my oeuvre could transport themselves to the books that I had fallen deep into and lose themselves, merely by looking at them.
I began doing this for a living once people began offering a price on what I produced. "Scrooge's Lonely Christmas in his Bed, Watched Over by the Three Spirits" was sold to an aristocrat that I knew but was not that fond of. A bourgeois banker auctioned for my "Camelot", complimenting my generosity of tones in the castle terraces and drawbridge. My most frequent customer gravitated towards my Middle Earth artworks and bought "The Hobbit's Home" last week when I had rung to notify him of its completion. Drawing Bilbo was by far the most difficult. I tried my absolute hardest to steer away from the tempting cover's depiction, even though it did not bring justice of Tolkien.
I had taken down 'To Emerald City' from the main wall, caressing the surface pitifully. It was thick from the copious layers of white that I had slapped on top, erasing my half-hear...