Chapter Text
An empty studio feels like a corpse in itself, Markus thought as he looked around at his father’s paintings. The tallest ones spanned the height of the loft room, but the smallest could fit in a postcard frame. They were priceless, a visual tale of a life well lived. That was now over.
“Markus?” A female voice pulled him from his thoughts. He saw his friend North standing at the studio door. “Staring at the art won’t bring him back.”
“Yeah. I know.” Markus gave her a small smile. They stood there in their black funeral clothes, surrounded by his father’s paintings.
“He was like a father to me too. He led us both to the art we love.”
“He was always so disappointed neither of us liked to paint though.” North laughed out. She was a photographer known for her dramatic and striking shots. Markus had preferred to work with clay and his hands.
“Nah he was never disappointed in us. He loved you like a daughter, you know.”
“You gonna hold on to all the paintings?”
“Some of them at least. If he didn’t want them sold during his lifetime I’m not gonna try and get rid of them now. Do you want any of them?” Markus gestured at the bright canvases around them. North walked up to one of the larger pieces. It was red, with jagged lines and bold strokes.
“He did this one right after his accident, right? Said it helped him cope with the loss of his mobility?” North asked her own question, not answering his. “Maybe you should try the same thing?”
-----
Markus’ painting skills were not his father’s. He didn’t understand the flow of the colors and how to achieve the brush strokes. He never had. He preferred the classical lines of sculpture. The erratic, childlike brushstrokes that filled the canvases around him were a testament to that. He gritted his teeth and angrily splattered paint around. Why did his father have to die? Why couldn’t he have been uploaded into a supercomputer with all his endless wisdom to guide Markus through life?
“Blue. Sadness.” North remarked when she saw all the messy canvases Markus had completed in the few days since the funeral. “Why did you choose painting?”
“Didn’t you say I should do what Carl did after his accident to try and cope?” Markus wiped his nose, smearing paint on his face.
“I meant you should create something beautiful. Something born of sadness. Not that you should try and be your father.” North wiped the paint off gently.
“Are you saying my preschool-looking abstracts aren’t beautiful? I’m hurt.”
“Oh shut up. We both know it’s not your strong suit.”
----
Clay is tough. It has to be beaten and molded. It’s dirty and sticky and sticks in hair and fingernails. Markus’ sweat droplets and tears mixed with his clay as he worked it in his hands. He thought of the doctors, telling him there was nothing else to be done. He thought of waking up in his father’s mansion alone for the rest of his days. His eyes stung as his work bench blurred in front of him.
Instead, he thought of classical proportions. Classical beauty. Like the Medici Venus and Michelangelo’s David. He thought about the beauty that his father saw in the world around them. Beauty in a bug’s wings, or in an oil splatter on a rainy day.
Markus looked down at what his hands had made. A torso. A male torso. Well proportioned, yes, but not overly muscled. Slim but powerful like a warrior. He felt better.