Title: The Making of an Artist
Time frame: Fluctuates between 3 distinct periods in
Justin's life - his childhood, his years in NYC, and the present.
A/N: Written for guavejuice's bday
THE MAKING OF AN ARTIST - PROLOGUE
"Brian, you're destroying my flow." You whisper the words without turning your head, lengthening a stroke of your brush on the canvas in front of you until it matches the one in your dream.
"Your flow?" He's in no mood. "It's two in the goddamned morning, Justin. You and your flow should be in bed. Blowing me."
You'll blow him when you finish working, but for now, he feels woefully neglected. You suspect he's jealous. Jealous of a painting. You'd laugh if you weren't preoccupied with mixing a touch of ash gray into the crimson.
You don't stop blending until you see the color of despair.
"POOR IS THE PUPIL WHO DOES NOT SURPASS HIS MASTER." - Leonardo da Vinci
You know you're meant for bigger and better things when your kindergarten teacher calls your parents in for a talk.
"I'm afraid we have a problem, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. Justin doesn't seem to be interested in anything other than finger painting."
Later that night, you fold the top back on the box of 64 Crayola crayons your mom gives you, fascinated by the variety of color. Searching for your tablet of blank white paper, you can't wait to recreate the children in vibrant snowsuits you see on their way to school each morning. Thinking they look like big huggable jelly beans, you giggle.
"Why can't he go outside and play with the other kids, Jen? Stop encouraging him to sit in the house with his crayons all day!" Your dad's problem seems to be directly related to your latest drawing affixed to the fridge.
Your mom's having none of it, though, proud of the fact that your coloring books go mostly ignored as you much prefer to make your own pictures. "Look at this purple he used."
Your mom is your hero.
New York City brims with humanity, its boundless energy welcoming you in, eager to see what you're made of. Determined to succeed from the moment your plane touches down, you're reminded yet again of the age old saying you've adopted as a personal motto: Uplifting art arises from suffering.
You figure you've got a lock on that department, armed with enough resources to make art so uplifting it'll float away if you don't bolt it down. You're going to choreograph a ball, compose a symphony, direct an epic film.
But first you need to find your way to the East Village.
It's two forty-five when you finally wipe the paint from your palette knife. You glance at the half-finished canvas in the corner of your attic studio and struggle to cast off the gloom, waiting until you're good and ready to tiptoe down Britin's creaky stairs and join your husband in bed.
Blowing him into oblivion at the crack of dawn, you lick your lips and settle in for a little more shut-eye while he heaves his breath in and out. "Wake me when you get it up again, old man. Don't think you're leaving this house till you fuck me."
"Hey, you're pushing thirty, Sunshine. That pretty face of yours is gonna age like Robert Redford's did if you don't start keeping some decent hours. Roll over."
You're not surprised when he proceeds to rim and ram you as if he were a teenager again, your seemingly offhand remark anything but. You curl up under the comforter when he shuffles out of bed, thankful for small indulgences like sleeping as long as you please after he heads for the office each morning.
Not intending to budge until noon, you admire your partner's still-perfect backside before it disappears into the shower. "Brian? Bring ice cream home tonight."