A Moment of Escape
:: The altercation with Persephone and Mystique had left more questions than answers. She was glad to have been by Blaze's side, but the whole situation. Standing with The Six, watching them claw at Persephone, it was all a bit draining and Vivica had been up for the last fifty six hours straight. Once she made contact with Oracle and updated her and took a moment to vent with Isis and Richard, Vivica took the opportunity to LEAVE The Parthenon and get a little time for herself. Promising Oracle that she would update her as frequently as possible, she was given the green light to go home and get some rest. But she didn't go home. She went to the only other place in the city where she could be herself. She went to Belle Epoque - her gallery in Chelsea. ::
:: It was quiet and serene. The art hanging in the exhibit space was cloaked in darkness, adding all the more edge to it as she made her way through the exhibit space and through the back door which led to her studio space, where she created her own art. Where she expressed herself. Her sanctuary. ::
:: Tying her braids up into a loose bun, she lit many tea candles around her studio and plugged her phone into the speaker system, streaming some music as she mindlessly cleaned up around herself, before prepping her palette and gathering her brushes. She lit a joint that her assistant Andre had given to her as she melted into the scenery around her. The music began to play. ::
BANKS - Crowded Places
:: Finally, among the soft light and tea candles in her art studio and the haunting beauty of the music playing through her speakers, she was faced with a blank canvas, which brought her immediate comfort. Vivica was a smart woman. Methodical. Logical even. But at a young age she had found escape in the world of art. Of course there were rules to be followed, things she had learned during her education that told what was good art and what was pure garbage. But the second Vivica had the brush in her hand, the second she saw a landscape of white just begging to be filled, she was not guided by her education, or her refined hand. She was guided by her soul, by her intuition, by the things that she wanted to say that bubbled just beneath the surface of her skin, waiting for her to take that brush and to dip it in paint. Waiting to express itself. ::
:: As she stood in front of the canvas, slowly taking a hit of the joint she had just lit, followed by a glass of blush colored wine, she was reminded of the greats. Though he was rather a cliche and obvious inspiration, she always enjoyed what Pablo Picasso had to say about art. In fact, she much preferred what Picasso had to say about art rather than his art itself. He spoke of art as just another way of keeping a diary. Said that the purpose of art is to wash away from the soul the "dust of everyday life." That taste was the enemy of creativeness. ::
:: To her left, against the bay window in her studio, she saw the pieces that Julian, a young man under the care of Rose that she had connected with after the Purifier event. He was using his telekinesis to paint, to express the chaos he felt in the world. And his art was beautiful. It was severe and abstract and colorful. He may not have known it, but he was authoring an entirely new form of art. Julian was too young to realize that he was part of a whole new movement of art. He was expressing himself with his god given power, in the most beautiful of ways, to the point that it made Vivica question her own art. Was she doing enough? Was this gallery enough. What was her message anymore. What was she trying to say? It was the same series of questions she asked herself every time she started a new piece. It was that lack of belief, and that insecurity that made her art good, because it caused her to pour so much of herself into it. ::
"Black."
:: For Ava. Her hand guided her as black filled the canvas in baited strokes and hard edges. For as far as she had come, she couldn't forget the night that she had nearly died at the hands of Ava Cassadine. She attacked the canvas with wild abandon, releasing her anger at the woman who had tricked so many people she cared about into believing that they could trust her. That they could love her. ::
"Orange."
:: For Zach. For the way that he had brought her back to life. Had made the warmth of the sun that much warmer. He was the one who had given her a new life, saved her from the bold black abyss that was Ava. The orange dulled the black but remained bright on it's own. ::
"Green."
:: For Simon. She never thought he would be a part of this world. But it had turned out that he was deeply connected to it all. Deeper than she was. His mother had stood alongside Diana for decades, but even knowing that..it didn't stop him from trying to do the right thing. She watched as her hand guided her, edging the green into the places where it didn't seem to fit, where it didn't belong. Because that was Simon. His luck hadn't run out. He had been such a good friend to her since her return to New York. A nod to her past, but he never brought it up. Only supported her. ::
"Red."
:: For Cameron. Taking another hit of her joint, she finagled it into her roach clip and sat it to the side as she looked at the canvas and the acrylic red paint on her palette. Blinking for a few moments, she took her fingers and she pressed it against the goopy bright red paint, feeling it in her hands as if it were Cameron, as if she were feeling him. The moment taking over her, a few tears welled up in her eyes as she pressed her entire right hand into the red paint before slapping it against the canvas with bitter emotion. He had been her brother. When her mother died, Cameron became her only family. Sure, she had aunts and cousins and things like that, but he was with her every day. He held her hand and together they created an empire. She had given so much. Her hand remained in contact with the canvas as she flexed it, causing her handprint to be thick and stiff against the canvas, superceding the other colors. ::
"Friends show their love in times of trouble, not in happiness."
:: Somebody brilliant said that once, and as she removed her hand from the canvas, she wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. Cameron had been there for her highs and some of her lows, but when she needed him the most, he was invisible. He was gone. And he had never truly repented for that. Only smoothed things over. She cradled her painted hand before balling it into a fist and shaking it at the canvas, causing it to spatter red across all spaces of the painting, which was fitting to Vivica. He always consumed her whole life, it was fitting that remnants of that crept into her work. ::
:: She looked at the painting. It was far from complete. It was a work in progress. Like she was. But the joint was finally getting to her, and though she required little to no sleep, Vivica had been in OVERDRIVE the last few days, and it was beginning to wear on her. ::
:: Vivica wiped her forehead, washed her hands and stood over her painting for a few moments, before climbing a small ladder that led to a loft set up. This was a place Vivica liked to hole up in when she was working on her own exhibits and shows. Falling into the plush white down comforter, Vivica laid there for a moment, thinking of the days to come. She had come to New York because she thought she had found peace. Thought that she was unflappable. The city did as it always did. Proved whatever you knew to be true false. ::
:: But every battery eventually needs to be recharged and Vivica was at that point. The music continued to play, the soft light of the candles flickered and filled the space around her, and the feathers from her down comforter consoled her, wrapped around her, as she allowed herself to drift off..and sleep. For the first time in two days. And it felt good. ::
