Written By Fortunato
Dec. 25, 2016, 7:38 p.m.(6/25/1005 AR)
A colored sketch. A battered young man in battered leathers leans against a wall of eight battered pikes, his own pike firm in his scratched-up hands, its point angled upwards, sunwards. In front of the youth, a beat-down, gouged-up dirt expanse, blood-stained, fresh-blood-stained, site of a recent battle. Beyond the wall of pikes, a foggish darkness, creeping tendrils skyward, yes, even sunward, but the point of the youth's pike is sun-bright its own self. Ready.
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 20, 2016, 6:50 p.m.(6/10/1005 AR)
Horatio Mercier. I saw him [a mass of dark lines, covering almost a paragraph].
I've been thinking about memory. About how little we have. About how a generation passes, a family passes, and names pass into records and are lost. Or where the names are not lost, all context is. What can you tell about Horatio Mercier from his name? Other than Horatio is a fantastic name. And I rather envy it.
Those remembered past a few generations may be people of status, scandal, legend, but these are few. Even in times of war, even in times when courage is required of every single person, we can recognize and remember only a few.
But the stories are countless. The experiences, countless. Here we are, the rest of us. Horatio had the courage of his passions, he was driven by fires that darkness could not dim for a moment. He was admirable. I admired him, his fascination, his restlessness, his constant wonder. Remember him. [Another scratched out line.] Please.
I've been thinking about memory. About how little we have. About how a generation passes, a family passes, and names pass into records and are lost. Or where the names are not lost, all context is. What can you tell about Horatio Mercier from his name? Other than Horatio is a fantastic name. And I rather envy it.
Those remembered past a few generations may be people of status, scandal, legend, but these are few. Even in times of war, even in times when courage is required of every single person, we can recognize and remember only a few.
But the stories are countless. The experiences, countless. Here we are, the rest of us. Horatio had the courage of his passions, he was driven by fires that darkness could not dim for a moment. He was admirable. I admired him, his fascination, his restlessness, his constant wonder. Remember him. [Another scratched out line.] Please.
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 18, 2016, 10:29 p.m.(6/4/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Vincere
Sketch. An open book on a desk, but the pages are obscured. Mostly. A careful look reveals discernable letters in the dark, but nothing that quite translates into words. Desk and book are surrounded by a loosely sketched wind. The corners of the pages lift.
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 18, 2016, 9:48 p.m.(6/4/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Juliet
Sketch. A mirror hung in the high branches of a tree, and it's an especially branchy tree. Variety of branches, knotty, loose, brittle, stretched. In the main, the shape is graceful, but the sheer complexity and conflict of the branches is eyecatching in a way not altogether comfortable. The dense root system mirrors the branches. Despite the oddness of the sketch, it's lit comfortably, warmly.
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 18, 2016, 8:37 p.m.(6/4/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Eos
A sketch. Multiple sketches, bit shaky-handed. A star on a pedastal. It looks as if it were meant to be backlit by a flame, the hint of a fiery outline remains, but has been mostly scribbled out. Makes it look backed by shadow. A lion's pawprint in tilled ground with the ghostly outline of a circle around it. The parchment is further marred by other shapes, scribbled out.
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 18, 2016, 8:31 p.m.(6/4/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Joscelin
A sketch. A bracelet lying on a soft hillock. Hillock one tuft of a beach of hillocks. The sea beyond them, a bit rough, but in that slightly frothy way that adds visual dramatic interest rather than actively threatens.
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 10, 2016, 9:32 a.m.(5/6/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Sabella
A painted sketch. Central, a multi-hued rose. The core is a whitish silver, the rough middle a band of pinkish red, the outer petals a nearly black indigo. A few of the indigo petals have fallen off in a trail across a shadow almost too dark to see them against. In the upper left corner of the sketch, a slivered moon. In the upper right corner, a brown eye, simply drawn, scarcely colored. Across the bottom right corner, a silver chain, gently strung. Bottom left corner, an opened door with no hint of the room beyond.
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 9, 2016, 1:54 p.m.(5/4/1005 AR)
[A sketch. A skinny, small man in a drab black frock and a /stunning/ leather cloak of many colors and many pockets is practically a speck against the Thrax Gate. Even the guards make him look small. A caption beneath, "I wish to do more paintings in the Thrax Ward, may need reassurance my coat is not criminal? Because I think it may be." A smaller caption, beneath. "This is the last joke I can make about this coat. Sorry, Aureth. May have to burn it now. Seriously wounding my dignity. Cannot continue."]
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 4, 2016, 10:18 p.m.(4/18/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Gisele
A dark red bird perches on a flowered branch, its feathers puffed up, its dark eyes half-closed. The branch is a riot of color, a highly unrealistic riot of color in fact. Have there ever been yellow, white, cyan, lilac, orange, magenta flowers all on one branch, nearly crowding out the fresh green leaves of spring? You can hardly see the bird itself for all the flora. Bird looks cozy, though.
Written By Fortunato
Dec. 4, 2016, 10:17 p.m.(4/18/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Gisele
I've never met her personally, but certainly /unusually/ understanding about accidental paintings. And her books are beautiful.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 24, 2016, 10:02 a.m.(3/15/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Hana
A surprise niece. Thanks, Aureth. Hana is a good kid, talented, scarily talented, even. Hard to feel like the Lower Boroughs aren't a bit too much for her, though. These streets are the water I swim in, but I've been told repeatedly they're dirty and dangerous. Fortunate she already has a shop in the Ward of the Compact. Now she just has to manuever the waters that proper people swim in, and I know what I'd prefer.
But we're here for her. No matter what she encounters.
But we're here for her. No matter what she encounters.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 23, 2016, 5:14 p.m.(3/13/1005 AR)
Not a painting, but a full work. Entirely done in chalks and silverpoint. The subject, the Stone Grove. The standing stones stand like shaped shadows, the shadows they cast somehow fainter. The altar in the center is unshaded, pale. The most detailed part of the work is the flora, unique to the Grove, and this Fortunato has rendered in delicate detail. Wherever the flora crosses the line of a stone, the flora takes precidence. In the northeast, northwest, southeast, and southwest corners of the canvas are four heavy, messy marks, like words violently scribbled out.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 21, 2016, 6:48 p.m.(3/7/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Aldwin
I've lived in Arx's Lower Boroughs all my life, and wandering the other bits of Arx, meeting people, especially Silks, skulking around the edges of parties -- it makes me feel like a dingy, nasty-minded old crow. I appreciate Aldwin. In a way, he's like the path I never took, and his steady, calm, slightly-amused affect is an inspiration if maybe not an . . . aspiration. I'm glad I have a friend like him to keep me rooted. Also, I don't feel old next to him! It's relaxing! (I still feel dingy, nasty-minded, and crowish, though.)
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 17, 2016, 11:26 p.m.(2/23/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Myrinda
Arx may be terrifyingly isolated, the outside roads littered with corpses, and my mother will still pick fearlessly extended, public fights to everyone's delight (I hope). She's fierce and certain and there's real strength in that, even if it's put to use for clothing, defending her honor. She needs no defense, really, but I can draw some wicked caricatures in her name if nothing else.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 15, 2016, 8:20 a.m.(2/16/1005 AR)
A sketch. Series of sketches. At the upper left corner, a pair of stalking, shadowy, wolfy-youthling pups, all lax-hanging lower jaws with visible teeth and lolling tongues. They are otherwise in the harmless attitude of a romp, batting each other around with long paws, but, still, there is a large "NO" written next to them in an emphatic hand.
In the center of the page, a couple of silky, pop-eared pups, tiny and delicate and impeccably groomed, run short-legged through a fire-blasted landscape of skeleton trees, kicking up wee puffs of ash with their wee feet. A large "NO" is written next to them in an emphatic hand.
The third sketch, in the lower right corner, is the least defined. The two pups seem to be in the attitude of mid-roll, one is on its back, stubby legs pawing at the air. Their fur is so aggressively fluffy that the contours of their bodies are nearly lost. They appear to be situated in a field of loose-sketched blades of grass, their eyes are closed, they have dopey, happy, sleepy expressions. A large "YES" is written next to them in an emphatic hand.
In the center of the page, a couple of silky, pop-eared pups, tiny and delicate and impeccably groomed, run short-legged through a fire-blasted landscape of skeleton trees, kicking up wee puffs of ash with their wee feet. A large "NO" is written next to them in an emphatic hand.
The third sketch, in the lower right corner, is the least defined. The two pups seem to be in the attitude of mid-roll, one is on its back, stubby legs pawing at the air. Their fur is so aggressively fluffy that the contours of their bodies are nearly lost. They appear to be situated in a field of loose-sketched blades of grass, their eyes are closed, they have dopey, happy, sleepy expressions. A large "YES" is written next to them in an emphatic hand.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 14, 2016, 9:03 a.m.(2/13/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Orazio
I am uneasy about receiving commissions, especially commissions from nobility. Few who are not artists truly understand the innate unpredictability of art. They expect the piece finished to their specifications, as if the painting could grow out of their mind and not from my hands. They see experimentation as a distraction, and deviation as failure.
Still, Archlector Orazio is more measured and sympathetic to the struggles of artistic intuition than I'd expect from a man of his stature and judgment. Perhaps he is feeling especially whimsical. And it may be that I could stand to grow as an artist. We will see where this goes for now.
Still, Archlector Orazio is more measured and sympathetic to the struggles of artistic intuition than I'd expect from a man of his stature and judgment. Perhaps he is feeling especially whimsical. And it may be that I could stand to grow as an artist. We will see where this goes for now.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 14, 2016, 8:52 a.m.(2/13/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Aureth
My brother is irresponsible and impulsive and full of ridiculous. I love him not despite of this, but because of this. I am delighted that he has a daughter.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 11, 2016, 11:31 p.m.(2/5/1005 AR)
A painting. An actual painting. The eternal flame in a conflagration of uneasily wild color, yellows and oranges and reds and whites all bleeding into each other and laced with streaks of cooler colors, greens, blues, dwarfed and drowned by the sheer brightness of the warms. Around the edges of the painting, raw black, raw shadow. The shadow frames the flames in jagged halo, the edges all the bleaker for the contrast with the bright center. In each of the four corners, a mar, a flaw, troubled scratching. A shaky circle cut into the black on the northeast corner, a tooth cut into the northwest corner. Southeast, a chain. Southwest, a crude blade.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 6, 2016, 10:37 p.m.(1/18/1005 AR)
A dozen fires crowded on a single canvas. A bright splotch set against a simple cross of dark branches. A fire backlighting a horde of ashen trees. Three bonfires in slightly different configurations. A fireplace. A person made of fire. The rest of the fires are disinterested scribbles. In the margins, a small hand, three interlocked rings. Scattered dog teeth.
Written By Fortunato
Oct. 30, 2016, 11:28 p.m.(12/25/1004 AR)
An ink-brush drawing. Dozens of interlocking black circles. The overlap is uneven. Some circles barely touch. Others are joined half-in and half-out. Five are colored: red, blue, yellow, green, purple. A scrawled arrow points to the right-center of the network of circles. Written along the arrow haft, "This is art, Aureth!!"
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.