ArchivedLogs:Patronage of the Arts

Patronage of the Arts
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Tony Stark	2013-06-08 '
Location <NYC> Inkline Studios - Lower East Side
The front room of Inkline Studio is small, and does not, particularly, look like a tattoo parlor at all. Framed surrealist oil paintings line the walls instead of the typical flash ink, although interspersed are a handful of tasteful, artistic photographs of various people displaying their tattoos that might give away the nature of this business. Black leather armchairs cluster around a low glass coffee table; large black binders that sit on the table contain portfolios of the past work done in the studio. A glass counter stretches along the length of one wall, a plethora of various body jewelry on display; the 'front desk' sits at the far end of the counter, computer and cash register and large file cabinet making up the work space. The piercing and tattoo rooms are in the back, brightly lit and sterile, with doors closeable for privacy. It's late. Nighttime, on a Saturday, long past dark. The studio is probably nearing time to close up for the night. There's a steady drone of buzzing from one of the back rooms, one sleepy-eyed girl half-dozing on the couch perhaps waiting for whoever is getting inked in the back. Jackson is tucked behind the front counter, eye-catchingly bright between his plethora of tattoos (practically part of the uniform, around here), silver-studded purple tank top, lime-green edged jeans. His head is shaved down to the skin, another tattoo decorating his smooth scalp. At the moment he is frowning at the computer perched on the counter, eying its schedule and then one on his phone's screen. JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE! Is there even a bell above this door? Because if there is, that bell is going OFF. It is /announcing/ a presence with a vigor. That vigorous announcement is not entirely backed /up/ by the figure it heralds. There's a little too much /weave/ to his swagger, a little too much /rumple/ to his extravagantly expensive jeans and dress shirt combination. But weave or no weave, Tony Stark is striding up to the counter like he owns it, rapping -- raprapRAP! -- on the glass surface as though maybe Jax might not have /noticed/ his entry? He leans an elbow against the glass, looks down at the jewelry displayed beneath. "Do these, ah --" Another rap of knuckles, "do these qualify as /bling/?" "Evenin', sir, welcome to --" Jax's customer-service-cheer turns on by default, turns back /off/ as he glances up at the man approaching the counter. He rubs his finger up beneath the bottom edge of his overlarge mirrored sunglasses, turning to reflect Tony back to himself. His mouth opens, closes again, sort of fishface for a minute before he looks downwards. "... bling." His hand scuffs over the top of his head. He looks down at the counter, too. "I don't think -- that they're quite -- exactly your /caliber/ of bling," he ventures. "Did you -- want -- a piercing?" Tony looks up from he counter, his weight settling against it a little /too/ heavily. Maybe it's helping keep him up! "You know," he says this with an unfurling flick of fingers towards Jax's sunglasses, "it's nighttime." His eyes flick over Jax, and drop back to the counter. Back up to Jax. Back down to the counter. Even in his lean he -- teeters. Little bit. Just a touch. His arm presses down harder to the glass. "Why don't you just give me one of yours, you've -- looks like you've got plenty to spare." "Ah --" Jax's expression is hard to read, really, behind the sunglasses, but he sounds a liiittle bit dazed. "Sir, I think /my/ piercings is /definitely/ not enough bling for you." He tips his head slightly to one side. Looking a little bit /past/ Tony. Maybe in search of a /handler/. There is no handler! At least not immediately forthcoming. Possibly when she catches up with Tony she will be less than pleased. But for now he has been unleashed on the city all on his own. Possibly for a while before now, too, if the unsteadiness is any indication. "What about those?" Now he's gesturing to Jax's /head/. "You do those? You could maybe." He rolls up a sleeve. Stretches the arm out towards Jax. "Art me, is that what you do here? I like art. Bit of a collector." Jax's fingers lift to rub beneath his sunglasses again. And then skim higher, across the tattoo on his skull. "I designed all my ink," he agrees slowly, "but I didn't -- tattoo my /own/ head." He reaches out when Tony extends his arm, fingers touching to elbow more out of /steadying/ the older man than anything else. The sunglasses look just as blank when he tips his head down to study the outstretched arm. "-- Sir, I don't. Think that." His hand drops back to the counter. There's a long stretch of hesitation. He glances over to the computer, still pulled up with the schedule. "I couldn't jus' ink you right now nohow," he says, lighter. Kind of cheerful! "All the work we do here's custom work, so you need a consultation first to get the design /just/ right. Did you have something in mind? I could schedule you in maybe next week or so?" "I thought I'd just pick something from --" Tony looks around, only seeming to notice the walls for the first time. He frowns at them. "Custom work? That'd be like my own commission? You know, I'm not sure why patronage went the way of the --" His knuckles rap against the counter again, though this time it's an absent-idle motion. "/Do/ artists still have patrons? How do you find an artist to /sponsor/?" Another slooow rub of eyes, but then. When Jax's hand falls back down to the table, it is in time with a brightening of his smile. Quick and warm. "Oh," he says lightly, shifting over to pull up next week on the calendar on the computer, "m'sure artists could still have patrons if you wanted them to, sir. I think you find artists to sponsor by -- findin' work you like. Supporting them in makin' more. And yessir, it'd be your own commission. Did you have any particular kinda artwork in mind?" Tony's hands spread. "You're the artist. I'll leave the arting to you. Make it good. Make it great, I'll hang it on my --" His eyes drop down to his bare arm, suddenly reconsidering the medium in question. "That'd be gruesome. Won't hang it." "It'll be great," Jackson assures Tony cheerfully. "When do you got time, I could pencil you back in --" He gestures towards the computer. "Whenever." He reaches over to pluck a business card from a stack of them, setting it down on the counter between them. The business card makes /Tony/ look around, also for a handler! But he has none. "Oh, I don't --" He shakes his head, looking towards the computer. "Whenever. Whenver sounds good. Why don't you call my --" He pats at his pocket, eventually produces a phone. Fumbles at it. "Got him right here. Next week. You know, I don't really need this meeting, it's not -- make room then for art," he tells his phone. Without consulting Jax first. Jax is /going/ to be free, clearly. Jax is /totally/ going to be free. He might not have been before but /now/ he sure is. "Great." His smile is quick and warm again. "Guess I'll see you next week then, sir." "Right. Right, look, you sure you couldn't just." The motion Tony makes with finger and thumb looks very similar to hole-punching. Somewhere near his ear. Jackson /winces/. "... maybe next week?" he volunteers. Doggedly cheerful. "Yep." Another knock of fingers on table, and then Tony pushes away from the counter. And he is sauntering off, just as jingle-y as when he came in.