Trapped in a glistening steel glass tempered elevator going down in a quirky gothic creaky fashion was this portrait artist and painter of the color field vibration and adrenaline aesthetic. Angel of the sand blown wood grain canvas, Orson.
He always had this notion of waves washing over him as he painted reclusively with Odette.
In the elevator itself Orson often felt he brought his own ecosystem with him.
Their famous displays of affection too evoked moonlight and sunny shores in each others eyes were included in the elevator in reality as well as fantasy.
Otson’s gangling supple glowing skin features a wickedly grasp it later on humour.
“Corny jokes in a field?
Odette is well used to or should I say ill used to my
PUNS.”
This elevator is ….. a very you’ve guessed elevating experience.
He whispered to himself as is his frequent wont.
“But I WONT tell you what my whispers do for me!!”
And of course like any couple they had secrets of their own but in their case convoluted ones.
In the meantime upsweeps of mythic majestic pictures churned and capsized in Orson’s skull.
Being mindful of the hands as his in many ways most important tools as an artist.
And the elevator eventually grounded to a heavy halt that would most likely shake the strangle hold of the most stubborn streak within.
Orson or anybody else.
“I have to affect a sprightly limber up as I proceed to my partner’s beach house.
Maybe she, Odette will tell me to EAT A BEACH OR that
LIFE IS A BEACH!”
The sea at the edge of beach appeared to sense its surroundings.
Both Orson and Odette had this unease as if it like the elevator had a shadow life.
It must be said that Orson and Odette are water sprinklers.
They filled pale rainbow glass bottles with them and sprinkled as a form of energising.
It appeared the sea didn’t give its stamp of approval.
Did it know something or was their a covert streak?
Orson knew full well that his limp insipid dry, well bland attempts at puns let’s say lagged considerably behind his eclectic yet somewhat botched surreal birth pangs of the paint brush.
The elevator and its solid grunt ascended to a higher top floor as well as to the lowest one.
Solemn, stark and with a cold calculator clout of the completist.
Orson and Odette had lives with this arch of
a most peculiar alignment.
The elevator, the sea, and goings on interlude in between.
Orson’s mind focussed on part time employment for sustenance when available.
They invoked spasmodic table clearance, dishwashing in steamy poorly ventilated kitchens, and variegated tasks that pass as gainful
employment which like any other segued feature of interlink and dash and dare transport flit from thriving hub to thriving hub to the relished remote relative outskirts such as a beach . ….. a stone’s throw away from the pulsing patois of cobblestone art adornment in the clamour and glamour of cities.
And that big doorway project which Odette with her crisp expressive vocabulary was always egging Orson on to put the necessary nuanced niceties to and to coalesce the splashes, dashes and Easter breeze strokes.
They Orson and Odette could both hear things water based and water related.
As if they both gained inspiration from these things in different ways.
Often they admitted to sensing each others thoughts through events close or afar.
In the meantime Orson would muse and enthuse on this painting he had yet to complete.
“I sometimes fall asleep to images of me sleeping on it. “
He reflected.