Elenion Aura
Two Thousand Club
MILO NAGISA
SCENE:
Splash of Plight
LOCATION:
5:26 PM | June 7, Pre-Arc 3
LOCATION:
South District, Art Studio
PARTICIPANTS:
Matsuda, Milo
SPLASH OF PLIGHT
Milo's eyes glided over the contours of the model's physique. Every line, every curve, and every muscle told a story.
He had begun his piece by capturing the essence of the model's stance. The weight distribution, the tension in the limbs, the flexing of the muscles... It had all started with a simple line to denote the spine. This line, Milo knew well, would be his guiding light, his North Star, ensuring that every part was in harmony with the whole.
Softly, the artist's fingers moved the pencil over the canvas, sketching the faintest outline of the man's ribcage, hips, and limbs. More guidelines, guard rails. He was leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for his future self to follow, when the time came to paint. An old habit.
This was just a sketch class.
Still good practice, he thought.
With the basic frame in place, Milo moved to capture the broader shapes. The bulge of the biceps, the tapering of the waist, the broadness of the shoulders – he used gentle, sweeping lines, respecting the form and fluidity of the human body.
When it came to the expression, Milo's own hardened with concentration. This part of every piece always demanded the artist's utmost attention. It wasn’t just about technical accuracy—about the way the shadows fell over the model's brow, how the light played upon skin, or even how the lightest sheen of sweat glistened over an intricate network of veins—but about capturing the spirit and emotion of the person on display. The art had to embody that special something that all good pieces of art had, which was always hard to explain and almost impossible to teach. In a word: life.
Life, Milo found, lived most naturally within the eyes and the hands.
He made the eyes alive.
He made the hands alive.
It was very, very good.
Leaning back on his stool, Milo took a moment, flitting his eyes from the model on the dais, to the one on his canvas, ensuring he conveyed not just the form, but the feeling. What did he feel?
Suddenly, Milo felt a presence near him. He glanced over to find Matsuda looking over at him. "Ah," he said, cheeks suddenly and inexplicably hot with embarrassment. Milo never liked to show a piece before it was finished... And yet, perhaps he'd forgotten why they'd come here together in the first place?
"How's it going?" Milo asked, about the sketch, and... About other things, too. He figured his double meaning would be received, but his gaze turned knowing—peering down the bridge of his glasses at one of his oldest, dearest friends—just in case.
Milo's eyes glided over the contours of the model's physique. Every line, every curve, and every muscle told a story.
He had begun his piece by capturing the essence of the model's stance. The weight distribution, the tension in the limbs, the flexing of the muscles... It had all started with a simple line to denote the spine. This line, Milo knew well, would be his guiding light, his North Star, ensuring that every part was in harmony with the whole.
Softly, the artist's fingers moved the pencil over the canvas, sketching the faintest outline of the man's ribcage, hips, and limbs. More guidelines, guard rails. He was leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for his future self to follow, when the time came to paint. An old habit.
This was just a sketch class.
Still good practice, he thought.
With the basic frame in place, Milo moved to capture the broader shapes. The bulge of the biceps, the tapering of the waist, the broadness of the shoulders – he used gentle, sweeping lines, respecting the form and fluidity of the human body.
When it came to the expression, Milo's own hardened with concentration. This part of every piece always demanded the artist's utmost attention. It wasn’t just about technical accuracy—about the way the shadows fell over the model's brow, how the light played upon skin, or even how the lightest sheen of sweat glistened over an intricate network of veins—but about capturing the spirit and emotion of the person on display. The art had to embody that special something that all good pieces of art had, which was always hard to explain and almost impossible to teach. In a word: life.
Life, Milo found, lived most naturally within the eyes and the hands.
He made the eyes alive.
He made the hands alive.
It was very, very good.
Leaning back on his stool, Milo took a moment, flitting his eyes from the model on the dais, to the one on his canvas, ensuring he conveyed not just the form, but the feeling. What did he feel?
Suddenly, Milo felt a presence near him. He glanced over to find Matsuda looking over at him. "Ah," he said, cheeks suddenly and inexplicably hot with embarrassment. Milo never liked to show a piece before it was finished... And yet, perhaps he'd forgotten why they'd come here together in the first place?
"How's it going?" Milo asked, about the sketch, and... About other things, too. He figured his double meaning would be received, but his gaze turned knowing—peering down the bridge of his glasses at one of his oldest, dearest friends—just in case.