Darth Vulcanus
Better than other-other space Kaiden
The power a canvas holds, stretches far beyond its humble beginnings under the brush of an artist. After the artist has convened a flawless gathering of color, vision and beauty across the delicate surface of a canvas, it the holds the ability to mold the galaxy. Even something as deviously simple as a mountain, calm stream or cloud can manipulate the very strings of the galaxy; emboldening, strengthening, innerspring and morphing the minds of trillions across the wide expanses of the stars. It seemed feat exclusively possible through the arts and those lucky enough to be granted the ability wield them.
It was that exact reason that Ozamu was so drawn to the complexity that was the finer arts; regardless of what he may or may not actually do with the pieces he finished. Oldman Oza, the name by which most the nearby villages knew him, was usually content with finding an appealing spot in the forests to paint scenery. That, however, was usually; and today was the farthest thing from usual.
The Atrisian hermit splashed a coating of black across the canvas, gently adding fine details to the black blur with a small needle. The keen tip of the needle glided over the dark paint, swiping it away to create a seemingly meaningless array of lines throughout the blob.
"No, that is not quite right." Ozamu murmured to himself as he leaned back to study his work. The line work he had done with the needle was not the problem, it was the positioning of the black paint; it was all wrong. "I am going to drive myself mad..."
Tzang sneered at his own work, shaking his head at the canvas as if it were child who had just disappointed him. He threw his hand forward and put the corner of the canvas into a death-grip, so much so that he torn a hole in the fabric and was digging his own nails into his hand. Most people wouldn't strangle their worst enemy as hard as Ozamu was white knuckling the canvas. He took notice of this and took a long, slow inhale through his nostrils. He held his calming breath in for a few moments, before letting it ease from his lungs.
This is going be the death of me...I should have taken up home videos instead, thought he as he tossed the canvas into the small mountain of failed attempts he had accumulated in his dojo. Shaking his head and taking the bridge of his nose into his fingers, Ozamu took one last breath before venturing up from his seat. He almost broke his own face in a slack legged fall to the ground, but had managed to catch himself on the wooden post in front of his work chair. Thank The Force for canvas holders.
How long had he been at this? It felt like years and if it weren't for the fact that he wasn't sporting a beard down to the floor he may have believed it. With am uneasy saunter, the Atrisian worked his way over to the wall where he had a small datapad hanging. Taking the device into his hands, he tried swiping away the screensaver only to be met with...more of the same screensaver.
"Blasted device"
Ozamu continued to swipe at the screen, cautiously moving his way to the door of the dojo; shifting between frustrated swiping of the screen and quick glances away from the pad to make sure he didn't run himself into a wall. Eventually, after some very carefully coordinated movements, Ozamu found his way outside and continued fumbling with the gadget despite his eyes nearly searing from his skull from the beaming sun overhead. "Why won't this machine work? Father was far too reliant on these things than was good for him!" the next thing he knew, he had thrown the pad across a few yards of grassland and even managed to land it perfectly into the one stream that crossed into his little sanctuary. It flew rather graciously...Ozamu didn't seem to appreciate that aspect of the situation.
A quiet daze, yes, that about summed up the expression on the old man's face. His eyes slowly drained of the last bits of life he had in him this morning, giving way to a cold glare of unvexed frustration.
"I need a cup of tea"
[member="Slade Zambrano"]
It was that exact reason that Ozamu was so drawn to the complexity that was the finer arts; regardless of what he may or may not actually do with the pieces he finished. Oldman Oza, the name by which most the nearby villages knew him, was usually content with finding an appealing spot in the forests to paint scenery. That, however, was usually; and today was the farthest thing from usual.
The Atrisian hermit splashed a coating of black across the canvas, gently adding fine details to the black blur with a small needle. The keen tip of the needle glided over the dark paint, swiping it away to create a seemingly meaningless array of lines throughout the blob.
"No, that is not quite right." Ozamu murmured to himself as he leaned back to study his work. The line work he had done with the needle was not the problem, it was the positioning of the black paint; it was all wrong. "I am going to drive myself mad..."
Tzang sneered at his own work, shaking his head at the canvas as if it were child who had just disappointed him. He threw his hand forward and put the corner of the canvas into a death-grip, so much so that he torn a hole in the fabric and was digging his own nails into his hand. Most people wouldn't strangle their worst enemy as hard as Ozamu was white knuckling the canvas. He took notice of this and took a long, slow inhale through his nostrils. He held his calming breath in for a few moments, before letting it ease from his lungs.
This is going be the death of me...I should have taken up home videos instead, thought he as he tossed the canvas into the small mountain of failed attempts he had accumulated in his dojo. Shaking his head and taking the bridge of his nose into his fingers, Ozamu took one last breath before venturing up from his seat. He almost broke his own face in a slack legged fall to the ground, but had managed to catch himself on the wooden post in front of his work chair. Thank The Force for canvas holders.
How long had he been at this? It felt like years and if it weren't for the fact that he wasn't sporting a beard down to the floor he may have believed it. With am uneasy saunter, the Atrisian worked his way over to the wall where he had a small datapad hanging. Taking the device into his hands, he tried swiping away the screensaver only to be met with...more of the same screensaver.
"Blasted device"
Ozamu continued to swipe at the screen, cautiously moving his way to the door of the dojo; shifting between frustrated swiping of the screen and quick glances away from the pad to make sure he didn't run himself into a wall. Eventually, after some very carefully coordinated movements, Ozamu found his way outside and continued fumbling with the gadget despite his eyes nearly searing from his skull from the beaming sun overhead. "Why won't this machine work? Father was far too reliant on these things than was good for him!" the next thing he knew, he had thrown the pad across a few yards of grassland and even managed to land it perfectly into the one stream that crossed into his little sanctuary. It flew rather graciously...Ozamu didn't seem to appreciate that aspect of the situation.
A quiet daze, yes, that about summed up the expression on the old man's face. His eyes slowly drained of the last bits of life he had in him this morning, giving way to a cold glare of unvexed frustration.
"I need a cup of tea"
[member="Slade Zambrano"]
