Sequel: Knock Me Out ›
Oil Scripture
One
As an art student, one has to choose an artist with which to study on. This study is a part of the curriculum that Mat was forced into, he was meant to come in to his university that day so he could choose one from the list given. This list was compiled of the most well known artists to the unknown, each having had some kind of art show or other in the country. As it turned out, he had to arrive promptly at 9.00 am at the university studios. That was, if he wanted to get a decent artist to study from.
After all, no one wants to study an artist who was nothing special.
Maybe it was fate that had brought Mat and Persia together. His actions the night before influenced by fate. Fate that had forced Mat to oversleep after his fiascos the previous evening, his memory murky and distant from the world he knew. Once he had managed to haul his decrepit skeletal form out of bed he leant his weight against the bedside table he had made his way over to, his skull a bass drum of the consequences of being a nightlife youth.
One thing that Mat had become accustomed to after years of lack of sleep and deranged thoughts was that he was, in fact, nocturnal. He functioned better once the sun had crept back to its sleeping abode, the moon hanging in the sky like a watchful guard. The moon saw so much, people just didn’t consider it as a significant enough part of their life, at least that was what Mat thought. Then again, Mat had always seemed to think differently, which could explain his seemingly chaotic demeanour and lifestyle. He survived on the luxuries of life, also known as the bohemian existence which so many artists had lived that it had become its own style entirely.
Slowly his thoughts began to sort themselves out into a reasonable order, all hope for a recollection of the night before long gone. Instead he quizzed his memory for what he was meant to do that day, the dull thud of his hangover obscuring his brain from functioning. It came to him like a slap on the face; he had to get to the art studios he studied in. This realisation came as both a shock and a relief, on one hand it would require effort to find this artist but, by having to start this project he wouldn’t have had to spend his time wasting away in monotonous lectures, trying desperately to spot the difference between two pictures and the effect it had on the viewer. Art was like nothing Mat had experienced; his life was controlled by the creations he thrived on, his actions were influenced by the words of Oscar Wilde. His art contrasted to Picasso’s artistic viewpoint.
He lived and breathed art.
Eventually he moved himself towards his wardrobe, a vast disarray of clothing. He placed his most ambitious of clothes on his bare skin, forcing the world around him to stop and stare. This of course was one of the many jokes Mat had played on himself, people didn’t stare at him, clad in his black skinny jeans, smiths t-shirt and grey cap. He liked to shy away from the public eye, because he knew that if they did see him, they would scrutinise him under their gaze and he really didn’t have time for judgmental people. He finally made his way to the door, his brightly coloured Nike trainers scrapping off the floor noisily as he trudged to the art studios he had been studying in for the past year and a half.
As Mat made his way across the desolate campus worried thoughts flew through his mind, why weren’t there enough people around? Was he that late that he had completely missed the selection? Ironically, Mat hadn’t thought of checking the time as he left his apartment. Maybe he thought the time would come to him naturally, after all, time is only a mechanism of human life, allowing us to dictate our lives according to the height of the sun in the sky. He walked up the stone steps and into the empty corridors leading to the studios; he walked swiftly in the hope that it would make a difference to his lateness. As he pushed the door open he took a sharp breath in before looking into the room, it was empty other than his lecturer, a disappointed expression etched into his skin.
“You’re late,” he said dryly, referring to him as ‘you’ instead of ‘Mat’. Professor Violante never did try to learn people’s names here, but it’s as they say, so many people, too little time. He indicated with his hands for Mat to quicken his entrance, he always used his hands to express himself. Mat walked up to the man and was directed to a sheet that was placed imperturbably on the cheap desk, he scanned the names with his eyes and inwardly sighed to himself, all the artists he knew of were taken. Only one artist remained. An artist whom he had never come across in his life, her name? Persia Hallaway.
“You’re lucky,” his professor told him, “she’s got an art exhibition relatively near by, just down the road in fact.” He said sarcastically, clearly trying to place a joke between them to ease the awkwardness. Mat always thought he tried too hard.
Professor Duncan Violante, an expert on the history of art in its entirety. He was the kind of person who worked hard to keep himself to himself, the person who people found hard to describe, hard to talk to and generally hard to live with. It was a miracle the university had kept him so long in the business; maybe it was because he managed to pass so many students that the other staff members tried hard to ignore his unsocial behaviour. He wasn’t always like that, once he was bright and bubbly, never able to remain silent and attentive. He tried hard to forget his past; all he wanted was to live in the future, after all the past is a very different place to where we are now.
He always thought that Mat was similar to his younger self, he never wanted to admit it but after going through countless essays and art pieces he came to realise that they thought correspondingly. Mat’s views on the world mirrored that of Duncan, it was like they were the same person but in two personas; two bodies, one soul. He would never admit it, but in some ways he appreciated Mat’s similarities to his younger self. Sometimes he felt that he could erase his regrets through Mat, his actions allowing Duncan to somehow relive his life in a better way. In a sense, Mat was a reincarnation of himself.
He looked upon the young man with amusement; here was a man, a man who watched the world go past him with sympathy. A man who, with his life held firmly in his hands, let loose on the world in front of him, anarchy in its highest form. Mat Devine was a philosopher in himself, a man who knew how to deal with all possible situations thrown at him, it was impossible to stop him from causing havoc around him, after all, it was his life and he could live it the way he chose.
Mat walked away from his lecturer, a slight smirk carved into his complexion. His shoes squeaked against the polished floors as he made his way out of the open university doors, a slight skip in his step as it finally hit him that he wouldn’t need to walk back into the building for days, it was like he was a bird freed from its cage. After precious minutes passed by simultaneously he finally found himself in front of a small door, propped open with a battered old sign that had clearly been passed down through the ages, it rusted hinges whined as the soft wind made it swing gently.
After all, no one wants to study an artist who was nothing special.
Maybe it was fate that had brought Mat and Persia together. His actions the night before influenced by fate. Fate that had forced Mat to oversleep after his fiascos the previous evening, his memory murky and distant from the world he knew. Once he had managed to haul his decrepit skeletal form out of bed he leant his weight against the bedside table he had made his way over to, his skull a bass drum of the consequences of being a nightlife youth.
One thing that Mat had become accustomed to after years of lack of sleep and deranged thoughts was that he was, in fact, nocturnal. He functioned better once the sun had crept back to its sleeping abode, the moon hanging in the sky like a watchful guard. The moon saw so much, people just didn’t consider it as a significant enough part of their life, at least that was what Mat thought. Then again, Mat had always seemed to think differently, which could explain his seemingly chaotic demeanour and lifestyle. He survived on the luxuries of life, also known as the bohemian existence which so many artists had lived that it had become its own style entirely.
Slowly his thoughts began to sort themselves out into a reasonable order, all hope for a recollection of the night before long gone. Instead he quizzed his memory for what he was meant to do that day, the dull thud of his hangover obscuring his brain from functioning. It came to him like a slap on the face; he had to get to the art studios he studied in. This realisation came as both a shock and a relief, on one hand it would require effort to find this artist but, by having to start this project he wouldn’t have had to spend his time wasting away in monotonous lectures, trying desperately to spot the difference between two pictures and the effect it had on the viewer. Art was like nothing Mat had experienced; his life was controlled by the creations he thrived on, his actions were influenced by the words of Oscar Wilde. His art contrasted to Picasso’s artistic viewpoint.
He lived and breathed art.
Eventually he moved himself towards his wardrobe, a vast disarray of clothing. He placed his most ambitious of clothes on his bare skin, forcing the world around him to stop and stare. This of course was one of the many jokes Mat had played on himself, people didn’t stare at him, clad in his black skinny jeans, smiths t-shirt and grey cap. He liked to shy away from the public eye, because he knew that if they did see him, they would scrutinise him under their gaze and he really didn’t have time for judgmental people. He finally made his way to the door, his brightly coloured Nike trainers scrapping off the floor noisily as he trudged to the art studios he had been studying in for the past year and a half.
As Mat made his way across the desolate campus worried thoughts flew through his mind, why weren’t there enough people around? Was he that late that he had completely missed the selection? Ironically, Mat hadn’t thought of checking the time as he left his apartment. Maybe he thought the time would come to him naturally, after all, time is only a mechanism of human life, allowing us to dictate our lives according to the height of the sun in the sky. He walked up the stone steps and into the empty corridors leading to the studios; he walked swiftly in the hope that it would make a difference to his lateness. As he pushed the door open he took a sharp breath in before looking into the room, it was empty other than his lecturer, a disappointed expression etched into his skin.
“You’re late,” he said dryly, referring to him as ‘you’ instead of ‘Mat’. Professor Violante never did try to learn people’s names here, but it’s as they say, so many people, too little time. He indicated with his hands for Mat to quicken his entrance, he always used his hands to express himself. Mat walked up to the man and was directed to a sheet that was placed imperturbably on the cheap desk, he scanned the names with his eyes and inwardly sighed to himself, all the artists he knew of were taken. Only one artist remained. An artist whom he had never come across in his life, her name? Persia Hallaway.
“You’re lucky,” his professor told him, “she’s got an art exhibition relatively near by, just down the road in fact.” He said sarcastically, clearly trying to place a joke between them to ease the awkwardness. Mat always thought he tried too hard.
Professor Duncan Violante, an expert on the history of art in its entirety. He was the kind of person who worked hard to keep himself to himself, the person who people found hard to describe, hard to talk to and generally hard to live with. It was a miracle the university had kept him so long in the business; maybe it was because he managed to pass so many students that the other staff members tried hard to ignore his unsocial behaviour. He wasn’t always like that, once he was bright and bubbly, never able to remain silent and attentive. He tried hard to forget his past; all he wanted was to live in the future, after all the past is a very different place to where we are now.
He always thought that Mat was similar to his younger self, he never wanted to admit it but after going through countless essays and art pieces he came to realise that they thought correspondingly. Mat’s views on the world mirrored that of Duncan, it was like they were the same person but in two personas; two bodies, one soul. He would never admit it, but in some ways he appreciated Mat’s similarities to his younger self. Sometimes he felt that he could erase his regrets through Mat, his actions allowing Duncan to somehow relive his life in a better way. In a sense, Mat was a reincarnation of himself.
He looked upon the young man with amusement; here was a man, a man who watched the world go past him with sympathy. A man who, with his life held firmly in his hands, let loose on the world in front of him, anarchy in its highest form. Mat Devine was a philosopher in himself, a man who knew how to deal with all possible situations thrown at him, it was impossible to stop him from causing havoc around him, after all, it was his life and he could live it the way he chose.
Mat walked away from his lecturer, a slight smirk carved into his complexion. His shoes squeaked against the polished floors as he made his way out of the open university doors, a slight skip in his step as it finally hit him that he wouldn’t need to walk back into the building for days, it was like he was a bird freed from its cage. After precious minutes passed by simultaneously he finally found himself in front of a small door, propped open with a battered old sign that had clearly been passed down through the ages, it rusted hinges whined as the soft wind made it swing gently.
♠ ♠ ♠
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