ArchivedLogs:Interior Decorating

Interior Decorating
Dramatis Personae Corey, Mirror, Parley
In Absentia	2013-04-24 not a field parley and mirror will have some career in
Location Some Furniture Store, Somewhere
It's a neat little store in Chelsea, new and consignment both, an expanse of neatly-arranged home decor from the brightly colourful to the sleekly modern to the sturdy-solid classics. Among this treasure trove of furnitures and furnishings, one young man, middling-tall, tan skin, athletic, is drifting kind of aimlessly. Not really gravitating towards any style in particular. Stopping by a black leather futon, stopping by a bright blue loveseat, trailing fingers over a plain and serviceable tan wingback armchair. This not!Joshua looks much as Joshua always does. Slightly (only slightly) scruffy, casually dressed in jeans and work boots and a red plaid flannel shirt over black undershirt. His mind is Joshua's, too, warm and quiet and calm laid over a Mirrorbackdrop of /cool/ and analytical. He does not look exceptionally /pleased/ with any of the couches. But not exceptionally displeased, either. He sits on one. It is red. Corduroy. Bright. He bounces experimentally. "Will it clash with the paper?" Parley has wrapped his hands around the arm of the couch beside Mirror. His off-work clothes are less business-casual; he's also given way to plaid flannel, though his is blue and black and overlarge a few sizes, worn over a cool gray turtleneck that might negotiably be considered faded 'dark blue', with faded jeans kind of worn to a frayed white along the pockets with a hole in one knee. The 'paper' he's referring to is the single newsprint page he'd unfolded and hung on the wall in their living. Because he liked the article. It totally counts as a budding 'decor'. He might have also hung a drink label next to it. Because the colors, dark green, black and bright pink text, had presumably pleased him. Having a new apartment came with the added issues of furnishing the place, and on a budget Corey was out looking for deals and comfort more than appearances. Dressing in a long sleaved navy blue shirt and khaki trousers, he was passing by most of the more retro styles. Nodding to the other fellows who were out for a deal as well, he collapses himself into an old recliner, making it creak slightly from his size. Frowning at the protesting noise it made and murmuring to himself "Well, that's not a good sign," before reaching to the handle to pop up the legs to try reclining it. "Can you clash with black and white?" Mirror is genuinely asking this, he doesn't seem to KNOW intuitively. As a result he is /studying/ a nearby table in black and -- well, /chrome/ and glass, trying Very Hard to be cool and modern. He is comparing this table to his couch. Bouncing again. Bouncebouncebounce. His dark eyes slide over towards Corey, at the nod, and /his/ return nod comes with a return telepathic /touch/ -- not really /feelable/, silentquiet but a light brush of mental contact, skimming surface thoughts to ascertain the reason behind this nod. It's possible Mirror doesn't understand Polite Formalities. Nodding for the sake of nodding. "Can you clash with black and white?" he asks Corey, quite seriously. And then, to Parley, equally seriously: "I think. I might. Hang a /painting/." He doesn't /own/ a painting, admittedly. And yet. Parley's psionic touch is, if possible, even quieter than Mirror's; an empathic brush that would pick up sentiments, blanket intentions and emotional state. It coasts alongside, arm in arm with Mirror's as though the two had shared the reflex, casual, unalarmed and habitual(...ly nosey.) "Black and white on a white wall," he clarifies to Corey, either assuming 'we know Corey' or just not worried if they don't. He adds, in case its relevant, "A wall with a window." He creeps a leg over the arm of the couch to slip down beside Mirror, running his thumbs over the ribbed corduroy texture of the upholstery, "What kind of painting. Will you paint it?" That /is/ where paintings come from. "Feel." He reaches for Joshua!Mirror's hand, to direct it to spot his thumb is picking at - this requires he pull Joshua's body across his lap to feel the /arm/ of the couch. This one specific spot that he's discovered. With no psychic nature of his own, the touch goes straight through to the man. A general amiable nature is easily felt at the surface, and little more reason than common location being the reason behind the nod. Of course, the concern about creaking chairs now resided in the forefront of his mind, with Corey sliding out of the chair to the sproinging sound of old springs. "Alright, something a bit more sturdy then," his words more for himself than the other gentlemen. Being directly addressed by Parley, his mind churning through his Aesthetics classes from before, Corey stood still. "Well usually everything goes well with black and white doesn't it? But you probably want to go with Wintery colors?" Not sure if that was the word for it or not, eyes sliding over the assorted furniture, he chuckles. "Usually they say wintery to mean the darker stuff, like navy blue or the more dead browns. But really, you can probably get away with any of the colors and just claim its art nouveau. Most people can't tell the difference." Shrugging to the others, he looks still for that which will fill the void of comfortable seating in his abode. "I don't know how to paint." Joshua say this thoughtfully, not so much like an obstacle to this idea but more of a consideration. Slow and quiety. "I should ask. Lessons. Someone who knows about art." Though this hits on a second Novel Idea: "Or just ask an artist /for/ a painting. We know an artist. /Maybe/ more than one." This idea comes as he is dragged, fingers scritchy-scraping at the corduroy. Afterwards he does not bother rising. FloppyMirror. Sprawled out across Parley's lap. "Darker colours would be so much dark." His lips press together, faintly thinning. "Navy blue with black. Dead brown with black. Maybe we could match the bright pink." Of the drink label. "Do you," he asks Corey, "paint?" He offers probably unnecessary clarification on a delay: "Paintings. The kind in frames." "We don't have any frames," is reminded, with a pensive drag of teeth over a bottom lip. Parley nudge-adjusts Mirror like a seatbelt into a comfortable position. His empathy has a tendency to dilute his own presence, washing in the aura's of others, and Mirror's subtle-cool undertone is idly sorted out from the Joshua-overcurrents in an absentminded mental grooming. It's all so much roommate-homey-relaxed background noise, considering, "You can't really do it wrong, can you? Painting is just putting paint down. We could ask many people for paintings." He is semi-asking Corey this for confirmation, an arm draped over Mirror's shoulder more like Mirror's just another part of himself than a necessarily affectionate gesture. He's been annexed. "I'm not sure I'd like it too dark. What are you looking for?" Maybe they'll just get one of whatever Corey is getting. Shaking his head to Mirror/Joshua, Corey says "I'm afraid not, at least not well. So unless you want a Pollock style splatter color, you're better off finding someone else." A general sense of amusement came from watching the two sprawling on the couch, with him leaning against a couch's arm for support. "It shouldn't be too hard to find someone though, and if you want some prints of famous works, the museums carry them in the gift shops from what I've seen." The two were making him curious though, as their questions seemed a little too naive. "You can always hire an interior decorator if you're concerned about coming up with a particular image though. The ones I've met do ask a lot of questions about what you like to make it really fit what you want." With the question of what he was looking for, Corey chuckles again. "Oh, I'm just looking for something to keep my butt comfortable and off the floor. I just have a crappy little apartment after all, not really enough room to fill and make artistic." Images of the small abode went flowing through his mind, more idealized than real life, but it was simple with sparse decor, and in his minds eye a recliner sat in front of an open window. "A good old Lay Z Boy would work nicely though, but I can't afford a new fancy one. Too many buttons and features when all I really need is something that can recline while I read." "I think you can do it very wrong. Dancing is just moving, perhaps to music. Acting is just /pretending/ to be something you aren't." Which for SOME REASON elicits a look and feel of deep amusement from not!Joshua. "But you can fuck those up pretty badly. Even Pollock had some depth to his colors." His fingers still rub against the corduroy. Absent now. Mindless feeling of the texture. "Perhaps," he murmurs, quieter, staring up at the ceiling, "we should get a thing that /reclines/." Corey is an /inspiration/! "I don't want prints of famous works. I think I want originals of unfamous ones." His lips twitch-curl upwards. "Infamous ones. We could start a collection. You can put art on the walls," he informs Corey solemnly. "Then it doesn't take up space. If space is limited." That sense of deep amusement in not!Joshua inexplicably sets Parley off to furiously adjusting the other's flannel sleeve in mechanical smoothings while he listens to Corey, "We have a beanbag you can recline in." If you're... in their... apartment. "We could get more. I do like reclining." Smoothsmoothsmooth, his head is tipping to one side, "It's probably partly subjective. I wouldn't mind hanging something you painted somewhere." Smoothing turns into a very light tug, "Is a painting infamous if the artist that paints it is?" << (we know)(someone) >> is murmured only to Mirror's mind, in amalgamated concepts more than words. His rendition of 'someone' has an /awful/ lot of sparklydazzle to it - and something that briefly clenches, like a stomach cramp. His tone is wry-amused though, "Would it make our own apartment more infamous, the more we had? What color would an infamous couch be?" Smiling at the thought of collecting bad artwork, Corey looks to Mirror