Will Allowed Hannibal To Do This; Let His Hand Be Guided Down And To The Undoing Of That Top Button.

Shit.  Will turned to take a look at Hannibal now, taking in the posture.  “I’m not done being mad.”  He said, “I don’t know when I will be.”

"I'm sorry."

“Are you, now?”  Maybe another glass in he’d have been more ready; but they were doing this now.  He downed what he had in his glass.

"Your own fault for insisting on making this a cooking lesson...again. I know I can deal with me, myself, and I alone tonight; your track record isn't so great there."

// procrastination blogging // [runsonfear]: "What would you have had me do, exactly?"

“For starters you could have put oil on the pan so it wouldn’t stick.

Careless.”

Wax poetical about art, and Will would usually sink beneath the surface of an inward stream to drown you out.  But it was a curious sensation to have someone come so close to the mark; like his intentions were being torn out from within him and placed under a microscope.  He felt simultaneously exposed and invigorated.

“Schrodinger's Painting.  Well, hell...”  Will rubbed his lower lip with his middle finger to suppress a smile - unsuccessfully.

He took Dr. Lecter’s hand and shook it, let himself glimpse the man’s eyes; he was intrigued by the color, and memorized the points of light in them for later reference.  The rest was admiration, and then...not much before the veneer of polite social grace.  Very different...

“You certainly see a lot, doctor.”  He said,  “I’m Graham, Will.  I don’t know if you saw my name on the brochure...”  He turned back to his painting, then back to Dr. Lecter.  “This one’s actually mine.  I wanted to know what you saw; you seemed enamored.”

“Can’t say I’m disappointed.”  He let himself smile this time.

Never Paint Dreams or Nightmares │runsonfear

Hannibal looked over at the man who he instantly recognized to be Will Graham, he didn’t comment on the recognition.  

Looking back over at the painting and clearing his throat, he spoke.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, does it?” He said with a small smile.

“Or it could mean everything. That’s what is so special about art. The artist’s intentions don’t matter when it hits the public’s eye. I could look at this and see nothing, while another man might look at be reminded of the tragic death of his children… and another might see, in it’s strokes, a vision of his own death, or future becoming. 

Every painting, despite the intentions, both simultaneously means everything and nothing at all. I would compare it to Schrodinger’s Cat… Or for this, Schrodinger’s Painting. 

But as far as intentions, I think it might be just that. The meaning is that there is no meaning, other than what we decide to project on to it, which is neither accurate nor inaccurate.”

His smile grew a bit wider and warmer as he held out his hand to the other man. 

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” He introduced.

There’s a peculiar suspense to watching your fiercely held contempt slip away with a touch.  Somehow, beneath the swirl of emotion surrounding that hand on his shoulder, Will felt cheated.  He covered that hand with his own and gave it a light squeeze before gently sliding it off his shoulder and heading for the door.

"I'm sorry."

“Are you, now?”  Maybe another glass in he’d have been more ready; but they were doing this now.  He downed what he had in his glass.

The problem with art, Will always thought, is that the success of any artist is based entirely upon being the taste of another person.  Being another person’s taste, then, falls into a category of whimsy that either lasts for an eternity, or fizzles and dies in the wink of an eye.

Will didn’t know if he was the eternal kind or the fizzling kind.  What he did know was the feeling of dry paint under his fingernails and the smell of linseed oil and turpentine.  He knew that when he looked at a canvas, something had to claw its way up and out of him to fill it.  What that something was he wasn’t always sure.

Art shows always put Will on edge.  Being so close to the consumer body - that fickle animal whose hunger was the fashion and whose purse was the grace - was a risk to the art.  Once a person meets the artist, no longer does the person see the Art, but the product of the artist.  It kills separation.  Without separation, there is no perspective.

This was the idea behind his latest piece.  It had no name - the wall bore no plaque next to it.  People always try to place meaning in a name to place meaning in a painting.  To place meaning into no meaning at all.  Will wanted to break rules; confound them at the most basic level.

Will stood by the refreshments table, fingers tapping gently against his plastic wine cup.  There was one man standing in front of that new painting, Will saw, staring like a love-struck child into the brushstrokes.  Will wondered what he must be getting from it.

He took a deep drink of the wine and walked up next to this ‘fan.’  He peered at his own painting - a mimic of the casual observer.  In that north-east kind of hum-haw, he asked: “What do you think it means?”

Never Paint Dreams or Nightmares │runsonfear

“A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.”  -Leonardo da Vinci

   An art show, showcasing the most popular up and coming artists from all over the world. Names like Yamashita,  Grzanka, Parla, Harvey and among them Graham. Hannibal was here for Will Graham.

 Graham owned a rather small website with a short bio and a couple of his works, but despite his skimpy upkeep of his website, Graham was an immensely popular artist. Magazines and fanpages raved about him, yet getting an interview with him seemed rare if not impossible. Having just poked around his website for a few moments, Hannibal was captivated. He had to meet this man, and discovering his presence at a upcoming art show was just the chance he needed.

Hannibal walked around the art show,with a glass of red wine in his hand, casually admiring works of others. He didn’t need to actively seek out Will Graham, he had a feeling he would run in to him. 

He came upon one of Will’s paintings, beautiful as all his others. He wondered what inspired this particular piece. Lecter looked for a plate naming the painting but, unlike the other paintings, there was none. Ceased looking, Hannibal sipped his wine and closed his eyes. Tasting the wine, he imagined he was tasting the colors of Graham’s paintings, finding the flavor and passion and muse. He imagined that every intricate stroke carried an almost sensual intimacy, not dissimilar to how Hannibal himself created his masterpieces.

Reblog this if you slept with my ex-wife Susan.

Trying to prove a point to my divorce lawyer.

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@runsonfear

He notices his mouth has gone open: just a little breath shaped ‘o.’ Taking the wineglass he finishes it off in one gulp, hissing between his teeth when the bitter front of the wine blooms in his throat.

“Now that,” he stands, letting his eyes run over the shape and fabric of Hannibal’s suit, “does arouse my interest.”

// if u wanna // [runsonfear]: "I assume this is a food."

“You’re not hesitating are you? I assure you, it’s delicious.”

Jesus.  Alright, how's this?: I'd like to know why you're so keen on fucking me.  Let's start there.

Alright then. What would you like to know?