Post by ALITA MICHELLE DANVERS on Dec 5, 2016 23:52:58 GMT -6
Ali could practically feel her twin worrying about her, all the way from St. Mungos. But, really, she was fine. She'd obtained some scratches from a mission she carried out in the last few days, but it certainly wasn't anything to cry over. She'd had much worse. The thing was, despite her twin being a healer, she hadn't always let him see how bad it got sometimes. His heart was a little faint when it came to her - he just cared too much.
After Klint had mended her up, Ali had decided that she deserved a drink. It was the middle of the day, but, her work often took place at odd hours, meaning that she got odd hours off as well. So, she had the rest of the day to do what with it she pleased. And what she pleased was a nice, strong drink.
She'd headed straight from the hospital to the Leaky Cauldron, arms still bandaged and shoved into the sleeves of a red leather jacket to offset the oddness of it. Upon her arrival, she plopped down heavily at the bar. The bartender, recognizing her, filled a glass wordlessly and slid it her way. She sipped it gratefully, the liquid burning a trickling path down her throat, and, eventually, warming her stomach.
She'd purposely sat at the end of the bar, despite the relative emptiness of the entire pub at this hour, avoiding eye contact with anything that wasn't in liquid form. God, she prayed no one decided to come in for lunch today and think she looked like she was up for small talk. As she was thinking this to herself, she absently spun the somewhat full glass, sending it toppling off the edge of the bar to the ground. The bar tender shot her an exasperated stare before cleaning it up, and she shrugged sheepishly. Oops.
It was her pre-Christmas and New Year's resolution. SHe had carefully drawn up the flyers herself, a simple replication spell soon turned her one roll of parchement into ten. Blue and green cords snaked around the edge of the parchement. In typical fashion, she could spend more time on the flyer than it warranted. A curling leaf of fear blew in the back of her mind, stuck to something that she couldn't dislodge. This was a leaf in the wind, an unspoken prayer. The prospect of a fully engaging photograph career? It was only in her mind. There was so much between the overdone flyer and regular clients, but it was better that it depended all on her, even though the more she thought about it the sharper those edges became, cutting the insides of her mind.
Kira spread a few through Ediburgh, only one in St. Andrews. Small town, home was, and not the sort of neo-arts scene where she could ply her imagination. Her idea of portraiture and art hardly fit in with some of the more staid, classic landscape art traditions that adorned the walls of the small galleries around home. But it was only a slightly smokey floo ride to London where sound and weather and desperation bled into each other, creating a wormhole of creativity. It could take more of you than you were ready to give if you weren't wary. The arts trap. Ten years could go by with nothing to show for it, or you could wind your way into the nests of artists who made their homes in the small and the soaring flats. Stay to long in the jungle and the jungle sows a seed in you. SHe wasn't sure if she could do London by half, and she liked the place she was growing between Hogsmeade and the game shop.
She brought the spectre with her, over her shoulder like a familiar winter cloak. Suede of the inherited kind, like a borrowed jacket from the hall closet in which still hung her grandfather's bomber jacket from the second war ("They don't make things like they used to, Kira. Don't make them, ye kin.") And into the shadowy bar of the best kind. Just as she entered there was resonant cling of glass meeting hard floor, smoothe underfoot, good for dancing, she assessed with one stripe of her boot across the worn wood.
The bar was mostly empty and she danced around the waiter sweeping up the broken glass. That would be her, or her photography lenses. But no, sometimes a glass was just a glass and a pipe was just a pipe, and a drink was just a drink. But not all whiskey was whiskey. 'Glenfidditch," she gestured to the barkeep, a dark skinned fellow with eyes like a waterfall, grey in color. There was only one other patron at the bar, a brown haired woman lounging in shadow. She felt the pressure, an invisible swell that threw her gaze away. But she flicked back to the woman. That was the matter of photography. She could behind a lens and stare and examine and observe all she wanted. But why was it so hard when the metal and glass artifice went away. SHe shifted her expression into what she hoped was a vein of apathy, all the better to observe and stared at a point just over the woman's shoulder. Plausible deniability, always the best recourse.
She was wearing an sinfully soulful red jacket. Take the sin out of it. There was nothing about good color saying see me. There was a gulf but she wondered what it would take to convince this woman to pose for her.
Post by ALITA MICHELLE DANVERS on Dec 11, 2016 22:05:13 GMT -6
[attr="class","urtv"]✎yay thank you for joining this!
[attr="class","albedo"]JUST LIKE 「MAGIC」 I'LL BE FLYIN' 「FREE」
[attr="class","gaignun"]If she could only be a bit more graceful, she may have not caught the attention of the other patron entering at the bar. As it were, she could practically feel the eyes of the other woman on her - a feeling which she wasn't totally crazy about. For now, she decided that she would just keep staring straight ahead, as the bartender replaced her drink with a look that told her she best not drop it again. She would try not to.
Her job actually called for a fair bit of grace, which Ali had a decent amount of. However, her bones were tired, her muscles sore, and her spirit dampened. She was by no means at the top of her game today. Perhaps she should have just gone home. But, her tiny apartment was dank and empty and cold, and the fridge was empty.
She could still feel those eyes on her. Covertly, Ali studied the girl out of the corner of her own hazel eyes, trying to decide her next move. She would have normally come up with a far more sophisticated taunt to throw her way, but, it just wasn't happening today. Mustering up what wit she could, Ali glared disdainfully at the blonde. "Why don't you take a picture? It'd last much longer than my patience for your stares." She spat, growing more annoyed by the second.
"I would, but I don't usually take snaps without asking permission first. But if you're offering?" She relaxed into her seat then, accepting the mug from bartender. A sip, cold rush of swirling mint and the small eruption of bubbles. Back to the woman in red. She was still mostly hunched over the bar, tension radiating from her,. If there had been fur, her hackles would be risen. But that only intrigued Kira more. If it had been anyone else, she might have relented. A mark is only as good as one's ability to remain discreet, depending on the nature of the portrait. Candid, no permission. But the story behind the photo fell to the imagination, and half untold. It was never about the photographer, the minutiae of sensations tied by tenuous gold strings to that one moment, less than a breath or no breath. Any shift could ripple and the world through a lens would shift.
"Red looks good on you. I do portraiture. Anonymous. It's not the names that matter, only the stories the faces tell."
Post by ALITA MICHELLE DANVERS on Dec 25, 2016 14:20:21 GMT -6
help, i lost myself again
Ali continued her defensive stance, frowning into the cup in front of her. She didn't like the idea of photographs of her floating around, not after what had happened to her mother and father. They'd been killed for their blood status, the muggles who'd been found to have children at Hogwarts. They'd never, ever been ashamed of having the twins, Klint and her. They had always considered them to be special, not strange. They couldn't have known that attitude would be their undoing.
She glanced at the woman. She was pretty, but also persistent, which took a bit of the edge of prettieness off, in Alita's opinion. "And exactly what story do you think my face has to tell?" She asked dryly, placing her elbow on the bar and leaning her head against the open palm. The sleeve of the jacket slipped just a little, the dirited bandage peeking through the edge of the cloth.
"I photograph a lot of faces. Forget a lot of faces. Never get names. They're not important." She shrugged an turned to face the bar proper, a carved and varnished curve like the bend of Saturn's rings, with the wood grains nearly as luminescent under the varnish. In places, though, it was chipped, yellowed, and vandalized. The mementos of patrons leaving behind names with bills and hopes and passing conversations. The women's next question drew Kira's smile. "I never assume that part. They don't even have to be told. Some never smile." She raised a hand flippantly. "It doesn't matter really. The only stories to be told are the ones people want to tell. And if a person isn't ready, a good photographer never forces that part."
The woman was defensive. It didn't take an intuitive person to sense that. And she had gone about this entirely wrong, if she wanted a photo. She hadn't intially, even though the more glances she drank, the more she played with lighting in her mind, the outcomes of film - infrared, or black and white. Infrared drew out speckles and scars. A story didn't need to be told, verbally. The body spoke.
Post by ALITA MICHELLE DANVERS on Jan 14, 2017 13:18:28 GMT -6
help, i lost myself again
She wanted to continue asking the woman questions, despite her former apprehension. The woman was the sort who had the face that made one want to tell her things - a trait which Ali had lacked for most of her life, but even more so after her parents died. She could not remember the last time she'd engaged in even a mildly casual conversation. Outside of her brother and the coworkers which she was obligated to converse with, she didn't talk to many.
"You must have captured a lot of interesting stories, by those accounts." She murmered, squinting a little at the woman. It wouldn't be hard to let her take the picture, not really. She was being defensive and difficult, but, that was always the way she started out with people.
"Actually, I have. Only snippets, of course, whatever story - real or otherwise - they want to tell me. Hoping to get a museum showing someday." She twirled the straw in her drink, thinking of all the project she had yet to do. The life of an artist was eighty percent perspiration, ten percent luck, and ten percent skill, or some configuration of the three. With muggles and their cameras, everyone thought themselves a photographer, and the lines between reverence, fine art, and the quirky were all muddled.
Kira looked back at the woman, tilting her head to match the women's posture. "If we're going to converse, mind if I move closer. I like to save my voice for things other than shouting down the bar." Though that did have its purposes and its own time, mostly related to quidditch match viewings, and extra special men.
Post by ALITA MICHELLE DANVERS on Jan 27, 2017 16:33:03 GMT -6
help, i lost myself again.
She was quiet for a moment, mulling over the idea of being so enthralled by the stories of others. It seemed odd to her, to want to collect such tales, when she barely wanted to tell her story to most people. "Oh? Some of the stories must have stuck out, though. Surely you've had some strange conversations." She said, wondering how different people responded to the offer of being photographed. She was sure the other woman had seen the full spectrum.
The question fired at her was not totally unexpected, but Ali did tense up ever so slightly at the thought of the woman encroaching on her very large personal bubble. She didn't like people near her. Granted, she could have tried to look into this woman's mind at any point and learn her true intentions, or at least try to. But, she was almost too tired to care at what was fueling the woman's interest. "Yes, I suppose that's fine." She said quietly. That was about as long of an invitation as she would offer.