A/N: I love Mark's psyche. I know everyone complains about the overabundance of Mark fic, but for me, his presence in Rent makes it all the more real. Please R/R.
Dedication: To Kait, for being my partner in crime. *laughs* I'll see you in MarkHell!
Bleak Splendor
by Bri
He had never experimented with such a medium before; it had always been sight and sight alone. Black and white photos had captured his vision perfectly until his world's complexity blew his simple expressions away. So he decided--no, not decided, fled to--his beloved 35mm camera. The desolation raging inside his mind now sought its heart through other's misery.
But his livelihood lay in shards on the cuttingroom floor. An accident--tripping over the stool in his darkroom--and all was shattered. He was hysterical, until with a hopeful glint in his eyes, Roger brought home a canvas, set of paints, easel, and paintbrush.
"Angel said it might help until...what happens, happens," the songwriter explained cryptically as he wrestled the blank canvas into a semblance of a standing position. Pleased, Roger brushed his hands of the dust from the floor, flashed him a small but radiant grin, and exited.
Leaving him with nothing to do but move forward.
And so he did; cautiously smearing greyshades onto the old-fashioned easel, he kicked the offending stool next to the canvas and sat, juggling his materials carefully. The paintbrush moved slowly against the canvas, but increased its speed and nearly sang as hues flew before him.
It took the form of a black and white wonderland; a flock of gray birds migrated across the cloudbursting skies as leaden waters churned beneath.
Possesed by his vision, he tossed aside the paintbrush, rubbing his hands in paint. Trees grew at a frantic pace, gnarled and faded, bent low in grief over the saddened landscape; they worshipped the clearer skies barely in view, behind the rainfall feeding the oceans.
And the crowning glory: a dashing waterfall, frozen but still moving as flecks of white foam flew asunder to the surrounding trees. He worked as a madman, wooden stool long kicked aside for favor of kneeling. His vision grew, leaving him in wonder of its maelstrom.
And then, the signature; he shuddered bleakly as he scribbled his initials in the corner.
Mark Cohen faced his mind and wept.
Dedication: To Kait, for being my partner in crime. *laughs* I'll see you in MarkHell!
Bleak Splendor
by Bri
He had never experimented with such a medium before; it had always been sight and sight alone. Black and white photos had captured his vision perfectly until his world's complexity blew his simple expressions away. So he decided--no, not decided, fled to--his beloved 35mm camera. The desolation raging inside his mind now sought its heart through other's misery.
But his livelihood lay in shards on the cuttingroom floor. An accident--tripping over the stool in his darkroom--and all was shattered. He was hysterical, until with a hopeful glint in his eyes, Roger brought home a canvas, set of paints, easel, and paintbrush.
"Angel said it might help until...what happens, happens," the songwriter explained cryptically as he wrestled the blank canvas into a semblance of a standing position. Pleased, Roger brushed his hands of the dust from the floor, flashed him a small but radiant grin, and exited.
Leaving him with nothing to do but move forward.
And so he did; cautiously smearing greyshades onto the old-fashioned easel, he kicked the offending stool next to the canvas and sat, juggling his materials carefully. The paintbrush moved slowly against the canvas, but increased its speed and nearly sang as hues flew before him.
It took the form of a black and white wonderland; a flock of gray birds migrated across the cloudbursting skies as leaden waters churned beneath.
Possesed by his vision, he tossed aside the paintbrush, rubbing his hands in paint. Trees grew at a frantic pace, gnarled and faded, bent low in grief over the saddened landscape; they worshipped the clearer skies barely in view, behind the rainfall feeding the oceans.
And the crowning glory: a dashing waterfall, frozen but still moving as flecks of white foam flew asunder to the surrounding trees. He worked as a madman, wooden stool long kicked aside for favor of kneeling. His vision grew, leaving him in wonder of its maelstrom.
And then, the signature; he shuddered bleakly as he scribbled his initials in the corner.
Mark Cohen faced his mind and wept.