What is Art? [Remington]

[Jesse Fforde]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Remington Rothfelder> Remington was a man of many talents, at least that’s what he would have said had you asked him, but amongst those there was no proclivity towards drawing or any form of art. He worked for a tattoo parlour (amongst other things), but his job was janitorial. Aside from having gotten ink himself over the years, he knew little about the trade. It would have been easiest to ask one of the people working at Adrenaline, but that was a little bit too much like admitting some sort of fault in his abilities (which he rarely did unless there was the chance for humor). So instead, he decided it would be best to learn a little bit from one of the local professionals. The plan was to just show up, maybe set up an appointment he may or may not end up keeping, and ask a few questions about the whole process. Masterpiece was the place, and he rolled in right as it was about to close down.

<Jesse Fforde> It gets quieter at night time. The customers are few and far between; Jesse spends the majority of his time cleaning up his space, or sketching. Sometimes he pulls out the sketch pad and draws with charcoals. Most of the time, while at work though, he uses the fine-tipped felt pens, and the specialised watercolours. These are the designs that can more easily be turned into tattoos. They are his way of venting. Some people write journals. Jesse draws. Most of the time his images take on a mythical bent; this time is no different. He is preoccupied with a hydra, four heads and gnashing teeth. His style is influenced by Sailor Jerry. All Jesse has to do to close the shop is lock the door and count the cash. He is in no rush. The bell over the door alerts him to a new customer; he finishes a single stroke, before turning in his chair and standing, sauntering toward the front counter. When he sees who it is, he can't help a smirk. It's not really a mirthful smirk. But he's in a good mood. "Remington," he says by way of greeting.

<Remington Rothfelder> He had not been anticipating seeing Jesse, and his first instinct was to ask what the man was doing there. Had he somehow found a way into Remington's mind? Running into each other twice in a short period seemed outside of the realm of coincidence. But then he recalled having read on the Andras Crow Net that the family had a few tattoo artists. He'd thought originally that had been constrained to the few he already knew about, but it made sense given how much ink was on Jesse that he might work in the profession. "Jesse." He returned politely. He was always polite. His leather jacket stretched across the broad expanse of his back, pulling tight to the powerful muscle underneath. "You work here?" he asked, to confirm before he let his arms slide free of where he'd folded them across his chest at some point, but only so that he could move to take a little look around. He felt less intrusive knowing it was a family location.

<Jesse Fforde> "I do," Jesse says. He, too, glances around. Once upon a time he'd owned his own parlour, but then he'd been turned into a vampire. He lost a lot of his business due to not being able to attend to it during the day; he'd worked by himself, and had hired no one. It was better, in the end, to work for Micah. To give up his own business, though the building still stood. He clasped his hands behind his back; he wore black jeans, black leather docs, and a long-sleeved jumper that looked like it had seen better days, but which was supposed to look that way. "I make pretty pictures," he said, smirk broadening just a little. "Micah owns the place," he adds with a shrug.

<Remington Rothfelder> Micah owned the parlour? That would have been exactly his luck. He goes to one of the other local tattoo places and stumbles upon the other one (or one of the other ones) owned in full by the Andras. He chuckled then, because it was funny, thinking about it that way. "I originally came here to find out a little more about the artistic side of making a good tattoo, had no clue it was family run." The explanation was offered so that Jesse didn't think Remi was laughing at his expense. Hands slid into his jacket pockets as he idly sized the other man up. Under his jacket there was a plain red t-shirt, new in appearance given its lack of fading. He wore jeans, the same variety as always - that looked to be more painted on than worn. "Pretty pictures. I haven't even tried to draw since I was in elementary."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse shrugs. He saunters closer to the counter and leans against it. Sure, he is a man that is well able to hold grudges, but only to a point. Remington seems a good guy. He seems like the kind of guy that Jesse'd like to know. Given other circumstances, he'd be the kind of guy that he'd have gotten along with. Maybe. Jesse assesses Remington without looking like he's checking the guy out. He might be a bit too clean cut. A bit too... metro. It depends on how deep that goes, Jesse supposes. "There's nothing much more to the artistic side. You just... put ink to paper and draw," he says. There's probably talent involved, but Jesse himself had never gone to any kind of art school. He'd just had nothing to do with his time as a child and spent much of it drawing. "Why do you want to know? You want to learn how to tattoo?" he asks.

<Remington Rothfelder> But it wasn't just that simple. He lacked the ability to make what he visualized come to life on a page. He'd gone to the requisite art classes when he had been younger. He technically knew how to shade, how to form the images. He just had no talent for it; so the whole thing seemed a lot like magic to him. He supposed that was how some people felt about his talents though. The things he could do with his body, his ability to fight. "Nah. I figure if I work at a tattoo place, I should learn a little more about the things I don't know about. Want to show me some of your work?" He asked, even as he took another step into the parlour, bringing his heavy boots into view. They gave him added height (which he didn't need), but were worn mainly because they were solid enough to let him kick through the bones of just about anything he happened to be hunting.

<Jesse Fforde> Where Remington is built solid - a body that most women would probably kill for - Jesse's frame is thinner, wirier. It doesn't mean that he doesn't have his own strengths; he just works out in different ways. Parkour, mostly, the twists and turns and flips lending his body a more sinewy texture. Whatever the case, Grey doesn't seem to mind. And Jesse's never been one to envy the looks of others. He is who he is and everyone else can go **** themselves. He himself bordered the six foot range. Jesse reaches for one of the nearby folders, the corner of it marked with his name. Inside, are copies of all his work. From the desk he retrieves the sketch book, with the grey washes inside. The charcoals, mostly of Grey. Quite a few of owls. A few different black and white landscapes - the city at night. A few darker ones, inspired by his trip to the shadow realm. His fingers are stained in ink; charcoal beneath his fingernails. He pushes the work over toward Remington silently.

<Remington Rothfelder> While Jesse grabbed the sketchbook, Remington had the chance to leaf through some of the images in the folder. The artistry was nostalgic, like it had been taken out of a different, but familiar era. He liked that about it; had more 'character' than the hyper-realistic images he saw some people walking around with on their skin. It reminded him more of an expression of something in the mind and less a crass imitation of the living. That made it better to him. And once the sketchbook was handed over he began to flip through slowly. There was a woman he recognized a little. He had seen her at an Andras meeting in the past. There were several of her, so Remington assumed it was Jesse's intended. Grey, her name had been? "See, I can't make anything come to life." He said after a long series of silent seconds. "I'm lucky if I can get a stick figure to look like a stick figure." He muttered. "A friend did most of my work, former student at the dojo."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse is proud of his work. Of course he would be. He wouldn't be an artist in a trade that's so out there if he doesn't want his work to be seen. He has no qualms about showing his work to family; he doesn't expect compliments, either. It is his job. Jesse peers down at his own work. His eyes narrow; Remington had already said he wasn't looking for lessons, but wanted to know more about the artistry. And Jesse doesn't really know what to say. He doesn't know how to articulate it. In the end, he just shrugs again. "Some people have music. Some people have writing. I have this," he says, gesturing to the sketch book. He shakes his head. "What exactly is it that you want to know?" he asks, peering up at Remington, the question, and his tone along with it, patient.

<Remington Rothfelder> His fingers continued to turn pages. Some of the images in the sketchbook resembled scenes from nature, but were dark, like a mockery of what the world was. "I don't want to take up too much of your time. The shop was about to close?" He asked. It made sense though; it was all about expression, and finding a way to do that, that a person enjoyed. For Remington, that was working out, pushing himself as far as he could. "At least, I'd feel bad asking you questions without giving you the opportunity to ask some of your own."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse stares at Remington for a long couple of seconds. Silently, he leaves his side of the counter. He saunters over to the front door - he turns a dead bolt at the top of the door, and another at the bottom, before fishing a key from his pocket and locking the middle lock. Over beside the door he flicks off the switch that powers the neon 'open' sign. After which, he returns to his side of the counter. He arches a brow. "What questions do you think I have?" Jesse asks. Because, he doesn't have any. Not right now. His interest in other people's pasts told like a monologue is pretty damned slim. He prefers to learn about people through their actions. Through every day interaction.

<Remington Rothfelder> Remington watched as the other man went through the motions of closing up the shop, his gaze briefly following after Jesse, following the way he moved. "Not the inquisitive type?" He asked. When Remington was not working for Velveteen, he had to maintain his dojo, and often consulted for fight scene choreography, which meant that he ended up working with a lot of theatre groups and film crews. He had also been fairly vague in explaining why he had been gone for four months, though he supposed Jesse was the sort to prefer an interest be taken in his own views than the other way around. "I suppose if you'd like though, you could answer a little for me about how you come up with the ideas for what you draw. I think that would be the hardest for me."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse can answer that question without giving away much about himself. It's easy. He doesn't have to admit that in a lot of those pictures are hidden his deepest and darkest desires. His fears. His woes. His regrets. The things that he loathes. This is where his grudges come to stay. First, he shakes his head. No, he's never been the inquisitive type. He's never been one for idle chit-chat. It doesn't suit him much. He takes a breath that he does not need. "Mythology, mainly. Stories written by humanity hundreds of years ago. It's fascinating," he says; he gestures to the folder full of the patterns. There's a lot of mythology in there. When he gestures to the sketch book, his tone changes. "Or I get my inspiration from real life. From wildlife. From the world how I perceive it to be. The things that I find beautiful," he says. He lifts his gaze again to Remington. Would the answer suffice?

<Remington Rothfelder> Remington had always found mythology fascinating, just not the Western variety. If one were to look at his tattoos, they could easily make out the influence - the waters that could have come from a Japanese painting from another era. The geisha. The lotus. His own ink was a testament to another culture. "You find some dark thing beautiful." He commented. Not an insult, and not judgment. There was divinity in accepting that even he worst aspects of the world could be beautiful. "I like your style, though. It must be a good way to free yourself of your demons." And he knew all too well about that. There had been a point in Remi's life when he had been consumed by hatred. Rage. Time had tempered that from him, time and the acquisition of a certain set of skills.

<Jesse Fforde> A maelstrom moves momentarily through the ice-blue of Jesse's eyes; though they didn't literally change colour, there is something in the way they narrow, in the way they glint or twitch. But that's the only sign he gives that hints at something other than calm. Again, he shrugs his shoulders. He shrugs a lot. It's a habit from the past, when he had no voice to fall back on. Easiest to shrug when people asked him questions; normally they'd leave him alone afterwards. "I don't like to free myself of my demons. I like to leash them," he says. His smile is slow, and he doesn't take his eyes away from Remington. They stay staring. "Things are only considered dark due to popular culture. Due to societal agreement. Death is a natural thing. It is as beautiful as life," he says.

[Remington Rothfelder]

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Remington Rothfelder> The wording was specific, but splitting hairs. A person could never really get rid of their demons, in Remington's experience. It was like that saying 'once a cheater, always a cheater.' He had seen some of the worst traits in humanity play out in his family, and knew that people never really changed. They made promises or they pretended for a while, but people who were fundamentally broken would always be that way. Even if they hid it well. Maybe that was why he was so accepting of what most people deemed 'flaws'. "Death itself is nice, but it's the dying that I find beautiful. I recently found out that I may enjoy it more than I really should." He commented, his hip coming to rest against the counter as he relaxed.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse's brow arches. Now he has questions. Now that they're on a topic that he finds interesting. Of course there'd be a reason he ended up on the path he has - it's always been there, his own fascination with death. Maybe because it's something he experienced at a very early age; something that jolted his psyche into something broken. Something that may never be entirely mended - and nor does he want it to be mended. "You enjoy watching other people die...?" Jesse asks, slowly. "Or you yourself enjoy death?" he asks. "More specifically, I suppose - do you consider yourself dead now?" he asked, gesturing with a nod of his head to Remington's chest; beyond the shirt and the skin and the ribs is a heart that does not beat. And many see that as death.

<Remington Rothfelder> The questions did not unsettle Remington, but he was not so deep into his life as a vampire that he could answer them with blasé detachment. There was a moment of silence as he pondered how to answer. "The first, I think. Everyone has something that makes them unique, like a light behind their eyes that says they're intelligent and have the ability to think. You can express so much with your eyes alone. I like to see that fade away." In a way, he answered Jesse's other question that way as well. Because if he viewed life as the spark of sentience, then the truth of the matter was that he couldn't see himself as dead. Not really. "Have you ever wanted to just punch someone? Just grab them by the face and smack their head against something hard until they go still?"

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse smiles. It's an approving smile, but at the same time it's somewhat disappointed. But, maybe Remington hasn't experienced death himself to know what it's like. The week that Jesse had spent in the Shadow Realm hadn't been so bad. He sought the place often enough; could travel there on his own whim. He likes it, where so many other people are afraid of it. But, Jesse always is walking a thin line - something that may have always been there. A particular want to die that he doesn't exhibit unless.... well, he hopes not to get to that point ever again. He doesn't tell Remington any of this. He keeps his cards close to his chest. "Sure," he says, and there are specific people he'd like to do that too. One in particular, who won't get the **** out of his life. "Sometimes I go down into the sewers unarmed, just to see how many of those fuckers I can take out with my bare hands. It's... freeing," he says.

<Remington Rothfelder> His head slowly turned to one side as he watched Jesse, his gaze narrowing for all of a second, barely long enough to be noticed. It was the type of expression one might have seen on a feral cat, a larger breed keen on its prey. Gone in an instant. "I should try that sometime. I used to be able to spend an hour with a punching bag and everything would just fall into place. These days, it's like a fire. I go into the catacombs, and the more blood that gets on me, the hotter it burns. It's like I'm feeding it. But killing mooncalves isn't really...I mean I don't consider that the same." He said, though he didn't really reference to what he was talking about.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse watches Remington closely. He has a habit of watching other people closely. A habit that he'd picked up long ago, in the battlefield that was the school playground. A kid who does not speak is not a kid who is treated well by his peers. He had either to submit and become the weaker prey, or elevate himself above the scum. So he got in first. He drew first blood. He never backed down, and with fierce confidence they all learned to keep their distance. It's a confidence Jesse retains, even if he might be completely out of the league of some of those he's faced. People who should scare him, but don't. He supposes in order to be afraid of others and what they can do, one has to first be afraid of pain and death. Jesse is afraid of neither. "Not the same as what?" Jesse asks. He remembers the time that he and Paige had raided a crack on their own. They'd turned it into a slaughterhouse, and then burnt it down for fun. Maybe that's the kind of fun Remington needs.

<Remington Rothfelder> He sucked in a breath and it sounded like a hiss as it pulled through lips and teeth. He had been reticent to give out details about exactly what had happened during that four month period during which he had been gone. But he had to hand out a few to explain. "When I was on my hiatus, I spent most of my time in Texas, taking out part of a cartel that had connections with my father. They killed him, you see. At first, I did it for revenge, but then it became something more. I ran out of bodies and came back." He glanced down briefly, eyes on the counter. He didn't feel ashamed. But he didn't like that he didn't feel ashamed. Because it had been his ability to recognize his own darkness that had let him suppress it. Even still, he didn't mind being a bad guy. Not really. He minded not having control over it.

<Jesse Fforde> "There are raids here, you know," Jesse says, nodding to the front doors as a gesture to the city outside, with its sprawling mass of contradictory suburbs, and all the different things that are hidden within. "Hunters, Gangsters. Real living, breathing people who become a sport to slaughter," he says. He has no idea why it is a thing, but it is. These dens that the vampires uncover and then descend upon in hoards; vampires who may hate each other leave each other alone in these places. It's like some unspoken agreement. Some unspoken law - that slaughter isn't frowned upon. No, no. It is instead encouraged. Again, Jesse shrugs. "Violence is just part and parcel of what we are," he says. "It's wired into our blood." At least, that's what Jesse believes.

<Remington Rothfelder> Violence was part of nature. Remington believed that firmly, deeply. Nobody ever thought twice about a lion taking down some prey. Of course, the parallel was not exact. Killing hundreds of humans would give Remington more blood than he could ever possibly need, where lions needed to hunt to survive. But there was this instinct in him. He felt better, regardless. Knowing he wasn't alone, not really. Vel was similar to him in that way. Both of them were very calm, cool headed on the surface. But the right misstep and they would attack. No hesitation, just death or pain. "Thanks. I think I needed to hear that."

<Jesse Fforde> There's a brief flicker of a frown that dances across Jesse's brow. A hint of it remains as he regards Remington. The guy had come in asking about artistry and somehow it had inadvertently turned into a deep and meaningful. At least, from Remington's side, anyway. Nothing that Jesse had said is anything new; it's nothing secret, not in regards to himself. There's the urge to reach out and pat Remington's shoulder; to say something teasing, jokingly, but Jesse knows how it'll be construed. He's not in the mood to be called condescending, not again. So he keeps his hands and his tongue to himself. "We've all got our issues, man. Some greater than others. But some aren't so bad," he says. At least, he supposes, with a family like Andras and a sire like Velveteen, even the bad ones can't do much harm, in the end.

<Remington Rothfelder> The words made him lift his gaze. The moment was gone, like a brief farewell to Remington's humanity. Contrary to popular belief, it didn't just die out all at once. No. People lost what made them human bit by bit, one little piece at a time. They did it through their actions, through acceptance of the darkness inside. It was easier to do that when other people condoned such things. "And what about you? What are your issues then?" He finally asked, wanting to get off of the subject of himself. He didn't normally open up about his life, or his problems, another of the Southern habits that he had grown up with. A man didn't express his emotions like that.

<Jesse Fforde> The hardness returns to Jesse's gaze and that smile rests neatly on his lips. The one that holds no mirth. At least this guy is nothing like Yekaterina, or Doc. Both of whom had tried to tell him that he had 'tells', that no matter how private he might consider himself, they still could know everything about him just by looking at him. He ******* hated that ****. At least Remington is blunt with his question. Jesse can be just as blunt in return. "A man's issues are his weaknesses, and I don't quite like throwing all my weaknesses out on the table," he says. He has a history. And there are only three people in this whole wide world that have any inkling about how deep his issues go - or the things that he has been through to reach the point he is at now. Two know his past, and everything therein. One knows bits and pieces, and holds the weight of his present and his future in her hands. The one who will, sooner or later, learn everything about what makes Jesse Fforde tick. And that person is not Remington.

<Remington Rothfelder> The words were more defensive than the variety Remington would have used, but he understood them. He wasn't the sort of man who shared easily himself. Only reason he had, to begin with, was that it had been on his mind, plaguing him in a way. But even his issues with violence didn't touch the core of Remingon or his problems. There were other, profoundly deeper things that would have to have been sorted through to get there. "I'd normally invite you to a bar to get a drink or something. Difficult to do when we can't drink - or I can't. I should be letting you go, but we need to hang out sometime." There was a promise of violence in his words. The subject change was abrupt, because Remi knew all too well that when a man didn't want to talk, a pleasant distraction was better than prying.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse visibly relaxes. The door opens, just a crack - the door that had slammed, and which always slams, when people try to get past his outer shell. He's not accustomed to it. He doesn't like it. He stands properly, rolling his shoulders. Remington says I should let you go as if Jesse might have somewhere important to be. He doesn't contradict Remington. Jesse's only going to go home to Grey - but that seems important enough. "We can," he says. "And we will," he adds. He's not averse to spending some quality slaughter time with others. Jesse comes around to the front door again; he'll have to unlock it to let Remington out. "Also - if you do want to draw," he says, "Don't worry about technique. Just draw what you feel. Paint what you feel, find a medium that suits you. Not all art imitates life as we see it," he says, one finger against his temple.

<Remington Rothfelder> The final note caused a moment of reflection, even as Remington turned to the door, pulling away from he counter. His shoulders rolled, and he slid towards the entrance. His gait said a lot about him, how comfortable he was in his body, with the people around him, that he knew how to move. "I might just do that, though something tells me if I take up another artistic form; it won't be drawing." Indeed, Remington had always preferred working with his hands, and flesh could be a canvas in so many more ways than one. But Jesse would come to find that out firsthand. Another time though.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse just shrugs. Each to their own. He won't push Remington into an art form if it's not one that he likes, or one that he can use. Or one that helps. Jesse's form of artistry is not for everyone. It's subtle, in its own way - inflicting pain on others and having others inflict pain on him. The slow burn of the needle crawling across flesh, drawing blood. A meandering torture, but oh so sweet at the same time. There's something profound in it - but Remington would know that, too, being on the receiving end. Jesse unbolts the door and opens it wide. Crisp air pushes in from the outside.

<Remington Rothfelder> "Until next time." The words were quiet, though the conversation whetted a particular appetite, and there were things to be done elsewhere. Away from prying eyes, where he could hear he last beats of a hear and enjoy the warm spray of blood. He didn't bleed normally anymore. That was one of the things he had learned. His blood was black, like ink. It hung in the air where any damage was done to him, and then it just faded. Funny, the way certain things changed, and one almost missed them. He was through he door a moment later, and then he was just gone. As if he had disappeared in the wind.