Life Imitates Art (Merlyn Kyle)

[Psyche]

The 1st of October. Psyche had had the day marked on his mental calendar for a time now, and the eve had arrived. The day held significance. Alexander the Great defeats Darius III, the establishment of NASA, the opening of Disney World. For tonight's events, perhaps, some better observed would be the birth of the Free Speech Movement or the airing of the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Tonight though, he'd be enjoying the 'Night at the Gala' event being held at the Modern Art Gallery. Work had been chaotic, at best. Studies were just that...studious. It'd be a crime to pass on such an opportune time for expressionism. Looking out at the koi pond, he straightened his vest and headed out.

http://i.imgur.com/cLGfiqn.jpg (Psyche's attire for the evening)

At the entrance to the Gallery, Psyche pulled in on his black Harley Night Train. The event looked like it had a good turn out, with many of the local celebrities arriving to a red carpet and rapid succession photo flashes. Atleast two of the three mayoral candidates, from what he could see, were present. It'd be a good opportunity to reach out to supporters and backers. Psyche removed his helmet, set it on the back of the seat, and headed in. He could careless much about the 'who's who of wherever' showing up to network and show public face. He wanted to see the artwork put up to the walls. Perhaps he'd even find an artisan he could wine and dine into one of his own projects.

Sliding in through the crowd, the occasional hand made it's way in front of him. He supposed that the individuals perhaps thought he was someone famous due to his fantastic array of body art. They wouldn't be far off, in his mind. He was out-*******-standing to be around and a genius at the canvas. So he returned them, pulled out his small stack of glossed photo images og himself, and penned his name to them in marker. After all, events like these were a perfect opportunity for him to put himself out there with little chance he'd be noticed for what he truly was.

"Thank you. I do hope you enjoy my next collection. I'm looking forward to seeing what's on display for us all this evening"
Shaking a few hands, slapping a few backs, and kissing a few cheeks later; and he was into the Gala and able to start looking over the pieces.

[Merlyn Kyle (DELETED 5692)]

It was a red sort of day. Red, red, red. It started from her dreams. She woke blissful and wrapped in the tight silken cloud of her bedsheets, the memory of crimson brush-strokes warm in the back of her mind. Residual excitement over the Night at the Gala event tonight? Whatever. Red was Merlyn's favorite color, and not in the sissy half-assed kind of way that little girls had a favorite color. It wasn't a 'decorate your room in princess pink' kind of favorite, or a 'well, if I think about it long enough I guess it'd have to be...' kind of favorite. The right red in the right circumstance could change the way you felt. It was powerful, visceral. Not to be overused. She owned maybe four or five articles of clothing, except for her favorite necklace, that were a shade of red at all. But it was a red sort of day.

So after the day progressed, fielding a phone call from the family lawyer regarding damage control on her brother's latest idiotic escapade, making a home chef masterpiece for her latest lover: a slightly neurotic fetish model that she had already started to get tired of... Progressed was the wrong word. The day dragged on until the night, when she went to the closet to change. And red called to her. Sheer scarlet silk, buttoned high with long sleeves. She wore it over tight leather pants, knee high studded leather boots with metal heels, and a faux fur, purplish auburn cloak. And it was a fragrance night. Orange blossoms.

(Orange blossoms and blood.)

She gazed longingly at her own Iron 883 and weighed the thrill of riding against the outfit she'd chosen. A simple switch from cape to leathers and she could be flying across the streets. Put fashion over fun? Didn't sound like her. Better yet, ditch all the coverings and just go with the silk. Hope it rained. Something to chase away the mind-aching doldrums of living like a butterfly pinned to a card. 'You can do anything, be anything, Merle. You don't have to be on your own.'

Except she always was on her own, Merlyn thought as she stripped off the cloak and slipped into her jacket, zipping it loosely and straddling her Harley. From crowds full of cardboard cut-outs to the dropped edge of a lover's smile, to the family's polite and supportive disinterest. The only time she wasn't alone was with Corbin, baby brother, and most of the time she would have cheerfully watched Corbin strangle on his own lungs. Not a nice thing to think? Well, you try cleaning up after a grown man for twenty years, watching him smile on magazine covers and get everything that he wants.

The ride was good. It calmed her. She didn't know what had gotten into her today. Thoughts like this, teeter-totter rise and fall between maudlin and malicious, weren't usual. It probably marked the start of a mixed episode, which wouldn't be fun riding out. The streets were a blur of lights, and even with the jacket and helmet she could feel the world racing past her, feel the air bend as if she were stabbing it through the heart.

When she got to the Gallery, she was back in that smooth, half-melted mode blissed out on a good experience. She left her jacket with the Harley and her helmet and didn't bother to fix her hair, sweeping in all crimson sheer over fair skin, leather and metal, red predatory lips and cold, dilated green eyes.

And it was wonderful. She lost herself in it, drifting from piece to piece, from person to person, judging each on its merits, on its artistry, its reality, and how it moved her. She didn't have her art history goggles on tonight. Not yet. Soon enough something would snap her out of the soft soap bubble of pleasure, but for now she'd revel in it. She'd let it guide her.

[If you'd like a visual representation, here's the lady and the shirt. She's not wearing the skirt and her hair's more mussed: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uDRHQiFUufA/T ... 1%2529.jpg]

[Psyche]

It'd been a time since he'd truly taken a moment to enjoy the artistic movements of society. The beauty and variety of brush strokes, photo imagery, or the sculptural design coming together in a single space. Elizabeth had done a grand job with this Gallery. He'd not particularly always been on the same side of the fence as her, but, sure, there were moments when he could admit 'same recognize same'. When she wasn't bat-**** crazy or fawning over assholes, that is. To each their own, he supposed.

He'd naturally found his way towards the abstract expressionistic genre of pieces. It fit his particular view on life; beauty in chaos, organized disorder. There were one or two drip paintings that were mildly reminiscent of an early Jackson Pollock. Staring intently upon the intricate randomness of the design, he found himself lost in the spectrum of colors. Another of the pieces almost seemed driven by techniques of Jean-Paul Riopelle. Now he was curious if any artists of today ever saw themselves over to areas like Harper Rock. Now that would be a treat.

Hands clasped behind his back, he rolled his shoulders and allowed the visual display of skeletal artwork to create discomfort in the curious debutante he'd chosen to investigate. Feeling her eyes nearly burn through him with curiosity, he chose the stoic approach. Staring intently, giving the appearance that he paid no mind to her existence. The artwork was impressive, while lacking in anything exquisitely grande. His attentions had been turned to the games now. He'd often felt that he would have been a marvelous fit amongst the haute bourgeois. Living amongst the most lavishly cultured society, amongst the artists and ruling social order. It matched his habitus remarkably, oddly enough, considering his less than extravagant background.

Psyche let his conscious mind extend through the fabrics of the material planes and weave into the Vathia, seeking out the girl beside him. Once he'd locked onto her consciousness, he allowed himself to follow into the recesses of her thoughts. Here, her conscious thoughts read to him like a sort of audio tape. That narrator from the Twlight Zone, opening the scene for the story to begin. Truth be told, as wonderful as a gift telepathy was, it wasn't exactly helping him out at this point. The girl was so damned fixated on how much of an oddity he was to her, she wasn't thinking much at all.

If he'd allowed it to, a smirk would have played along his lips. Truth be told, the girl may as well have already been his. Concentrating for a moment, Psyche envisioned the image of himself completely bare; standing there nude as the day he was born and pitched the imagery along to sit within her own mind. It soon overlapped what she was actually seeing of him and now his imagery had become her reality. He didn't even need to look at her to know she was blushing. His senses were being ravaged by the scent of her heightened excitement, and it took every ounce of control to keep himself from ripping into her throat and allowing all her life to pulse quickly out of her.

Letting the imagery play, she was soon seeing the two of them locked in intimate embrace against some mediocre schmuck's idea of 'artwork'. Hands carressing, lips entangled, breathing heavy. He could tell she was getting herself worked up and damn near equally as ready to make a meal out of him. So, he let the image fade and suddenyl he was staring intetly at the artwork, paying her no mind once again. Through his peripheral, he could tell how vexed she'd become. Grabbing one of the flutes of champaign from a waiter's tray, she scurried off mostly likely to find herself to the ladies' room.