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.

Dedicated to the most brilliant and beautiful sister ever

Jay A Pallen