sparky lightbourne
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Figure Painting (Bit pervy sorry)Figure Painting
The delicate horse hair brush traced in blue, following the contours of his lower back and buttocks. Cyan swirls overlaid the bright yellow base. Giuseppe smiles to himself and feels his erection subsiding, painting his creations buttocks and genitals always has that effect on him. The artist stands up and straightens, stretching his aching back, kneeling down for that length of time can’t be good for you.
Circling the creature of paint and air, he sees that it is good, a muscular and athletic body, smooth and colourful, yellows, blues, greens and a few splashes of orange bleeding into each other. Stepping over to the work bench Giuseppe rummages through the box of bits, white and gold goats eye marbles, it only takes a moment to push them into the empty sockets, where they stick to the still moist paint.
A set of sparkling white false teeth are next, they slide wetly into the open mouth with ease.
He steps up and blows into the creation’s mouth, while holding the nostrils shut, then takes a couple of steps back, clapping his hands and shouting three strange nonsensical words. We see now that the painted man is standing in the middle of a crude pentagram, marked out on the floor with gaffer tape.
The figure blinks, twice. Eyes swivel taking in the white walled and messy artist studio, cloth covered half finished canvases, splattered multicoloured pallets, brushes in murky jam jars. The artist himself looking expectant and proud, a stained smock and dirty jeans, a tangled grey beard flecked with dried oils.
“Master, how can I serve you?” The servitor looks at the floor.
The artist’s eyes gleam with the possibilities, as he looks at the creature’s groin, the perfect penis, and thinks about the smooth firm bottom, clean and the paint as yet not dry. But no, time for that later. The blood is still rushing south, he can’t let that distract him from the matter at hand however.
Across town, in a fourth floor apartment looking out from cherry ice cream walls over the sparkling silver of the cool autumnal Mediterranean. Sarah nestles cosily in Gianni’s arms, her head resting against his powerful chest, she feels safe and warm, next to his musty sweater, it’s got that pastry smell that means it needs a wash but is comforting all the same. The sea view is framed by the verdant dark greens, and viridian and ivory streaks of various pot plants arranged around the balcony door.
“Johnny, we need to leave, I know this is your hometown, but I left mine didn’t I?” This last question asked with a petulant pout.
“Your uncle is not going to give you want you want, and the police could be closing in now!”
Gianni looks at her, with his big dark eyes, that firm straight jaw line, with its twelve o’clock shadow set stubbornly.
“We’ll leave in the morning, coach to Firenze, and then a plane to Dublin and we’ll re-enter the UK by ferry from there.”
Sighing with frustration, further argument was pointless now anyway. Still seeing London again, living on yet another set of credit cards for a week or two, or longer if she could convince him to rent a flat rather than staying in pricy hotels would be fun, especially looking up old friends.
“You owe me big time Johnny putting me through this stress, you’d better help me relieve it.”
She smiles up at him, tugging on the cords from the sweater’s hood, pulling him down to her. He responds of course, they both need to release the tension of waiting for something they want, and something else, something they fear.
In the deepening late afternoon shadows of the city’s streets, a figure moves cautiously, hands shoved in pockets, his face in deeper shade thanks to the broad brimmed hat, and turned up collar of the long leather coat. He or it scans the street signs at the corners until he sees the one he wants. A small green and white caribineri fiat drives past slowly as he turns into the target street, the incongruously large brown uniformed men inside staring up at him curiously. They don’t stop however, coffee and pasta beckon.
The hot white spray coats Sarah’s chest, the water streaming down between her breasts as she takes a long hot shower, washing the smell of sex away spiralling down the plug hole in a soapy fragrant gush. The memory of his red wine scented breath, hard/soft body pressing against her, that muscular healthy frame, coated in a comfortable olive layer of soft flesh. Good living on top of hard work. And why not, both of them deserved the good life?
A knock at the door, a solid confident rap of the knuckles. She freezes, could it be the police? Perhaps anticipating her panic, Gianni calls out.
“Relax, it’ll be him.”
Fearing the worst Sarah dries herself off and gets dressed as quickly as possible. They’ve done this too many times before.
“Oh…”
The lounge goes silent. Sarah dressed now, walks in, in that quick, careful manner of someone expecting bad news. Gianni is fine, he’s standing there staring at the visitor, a man in a long black leather coat, he’s removing his hat. Revealing a bald, head, a melange of colours, yellows, and blues, greens and oranges, with weird animalistic eyes. She feels her world caving in, old certainties crumble, the police she could handle to some extent, even the Mafia, a constant threat to petty criminals in Italy, but this? This freak with the painted head?
The stranger speaks. An unaccented perfect Italian.
“Your uncle requests the pleasure of your company, tomorrow, at eight o’clock in the morning sharp. He says to bring a large vehicle, he says you’ll understand and agree.”
The strange man turns and leaves, Gianni says nothing, his eyes are glazed.
Sarah is just too stunned to speak for a few moments and collapses onto the sofa.
“What was that all about, who was he? Some performance artist pupil of your uncle’s?”
Gianni sits down opposite her, and starts to explain. About how Giuseppe is not his real uncle, about how the famous artist adopted him when he was eleven, about and this is unbelievable, utterly against Sarah’s understanding of the universe, and yet somehow she knows it’s true, his uncles abilities. Gianni is an accomplished liar and story teller, a con artist and identity thief, but she knows it’s the truth.
The next morning as a golden dawn still hangs in the sky, a large box van is parked outside the sprawling artist’s villa and studio complex on the other side of town. Sarah supervises the workmen, all of them painted multi coloured men, their athletic bodies clad in tight overalls. Gianni is sat in the cab, he couldn’t bring himself to get out, to go near his uncles creations. Of the master himself there is no sign.
Once the van is loaded, the ‘porters’ return to the studio, shutting the door behind them. She jumps up into the back of the van and starts strapping the framed oil paintings in. Again and again she looks at them, at the amazing photographic yet romantic quality of the painting, the fleshy olive textures, and shining brown eyes, conveying a distant sadness in the subject, who is obviously the same person in each picture, taken from different angles, different ages from eleven years old to eighteen, nude in all of them, Gianni. His guardian’s muse, his inspiration, his immortal aging yet undying obsession.
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