INK
Stark contrast. Cut and dry. If there was ever a man for black and white, it's Logan.
We spoke of the painting process over dinner that first night. It's important the artist knows exactly what vision the person commissioning the work has in mind and it was equally important for Logan to know what the process would involve for him. He was attentive but relaxed, due in equal parts to the bourbon in his hand and our recent lovemaking. Ensconced deeply in the couch with his long legs stretched out before him, he listened to me talk, not really saying much, just sort of absorbing what I had to say and asking a few pertinent questions.
So, the process? Basically it boiled down to a few simple things. I would need to do a series of sketches of him first in various poses and moods and then when we were both comfortable with that, we would choose together the one he wanted finalized in watercolor.
He had the idea that he needed to sit for interminable hours when the morning light was best and that he was going to be bored out of his skull. It made me laugh, but it warmed my heart too. Obviously he thought he wasn't going to enjoy sitting for me, but he was still willing to do it if it resulted in the painting Mariko had wanted him to have, and that touched me deeply.
I think somewhere in her, she must have known that I saw him the way she did. Saw the good in him. The light. And she wanted him to have tangible proof of that long after she was dust and air.
With a smile, I asked him what he thought about portraits in general... you know, like the kind you see hanging in museums or lining the halls of academic institutions. He grimaced and said it was probably all that sitting around for hours in uncomfortable clothes that made them all have that same look on their face; like they had an iron bar shoved where the sun don't shine. The distasteful look on his face made me laugh. I brandished the fireplace poker at him and made him chuckle.
I poured him another bourbon and we settled in together, his hand absently stroking my calf as we talked (okay, as I talked) animatedly about the real nuts and bolts of what he wanted me to do. His eyebrows rose when I let on that the whole morning light business and hours of sitting uncomfortably for an artist was something of a myth. Sure, the morning light was good an' all, but it all really boiled down to what sort of mood you wished to set. You could accomplish the same thing painting by candlelight, or in that golden hour as the sun set.
We spoke more about mood but his touch was... distracting. The bourbon and his nearness; they were both getting to me, as was the simple sight of his large hand skimming up my leg.
I never did finish explaining about mood. It's really just an arty word for emotional manipulation, anyway. Something that seemed incredibly dangerous to attempt with this particular man. I couldn't wait to get started... just as soon as we finished exploring a mood of a different sort.