by neko

That line isn't right.

It is, of course, the last of my problems, but right now it's all I can think about. My mind is being pulled in so many directions at once that it instinctively flees to the one subject exerting no pressure.

Tran's latest play opens in a week and the backgrounds aren't finished, most left half-painted around the studio, all failures, worthless. Vehemence keeps shouting at me that they're fine, damn it; just get on with it! and I know the others agree, but can't they see that it's not right? Don't they feel how dead and lifeless these drawings are? That they can't tell the difference means that they don't understand the good works, either.

It hurts. No one else sees this world of vibrant colours and suggestive lines, of curves and shadows and negative space that does so much more. They don't see the latent potential for marks on a blank page, already there and waiting for my pencil to find them. I am a conduit for my art and they, of all people, don't seem to grasp that.

The inspiration comes to me and they interrupt, break the flow, set back the projects they want with their frequent demands. Malevolence is after me for new set designs so often that I hardly have time to draft them.

But now, all I can concentrate on is the quick sketch of Narcissism in front of me, and the line of his body that just doesn't fit.