2006
There wasnt a single word spoken on the entire 14 hour plane ride, like her parent's constant indifference was nothing far from unusual. She's used to the silence, mostly engaging in a conversation or two about school and hospitals, only this time there was an overwhelming tension involved. It was because the whole overseas business venture was a bad idea in the first place, forcing the family to leave Philadelphia immediately. But the core of it was their daughter's involvement with a shabby group of delinquents. And like the obedient daughter she is, there wasnt a single objection from her when they decided to leave.
And now what of her friends? How would they feel about her immediate leaving? Sad, furious, uninterested, as much as she wanted to say goodbye she has never been really good with it, fearing that she'd probably make the whole situation worse. Or maybe, she hated the hurt it brings after, the thought of never seeing them again, and to ignore and forget was her way of avoiding that. It made her anxious, the connection she developed with these people that it came to the point where goodbyes would leave her devastated. She never really want to leave. And if there were any other way for her to stay, she would take it.
The wooden turntable record player, a gift from a friend, was the only piece of furniture distinctly fancy (and pricey) than the rest. Nico has always had a fascination for worn out records, more so the vintage tune that drives her to a sweet nostalgic trip. This dingy little apartment studio is comfy and extremely organized, with very little furniture to save what little space it has. Everything in the room was pristinely white with the exception of the vibrant paintings piled on the sides, and a bunch of random sketches uniformly pinned on the huge cork board. In the middle of the room is a peculiar human sized sculpture of a human figure, unseemly in some angles, with it's morphed head forcefully detached on the table, sculpting tools and the molds of bronze colored clay lied bedraggled next to it.
Nico casually sits by the window seat, looking out the small wood framed window at nothing in particular but the gloomy Philadelphia weather. She took a roll from her leather cig case, taking a deep breath of the aromatic cannabis, as she does so regularly to give her ease from the frequent creative block, w/c doesnt entirely help that much as pot is just making her sleepy most of the time. It has been going on for days and evident to the recent opus she just recently neglected in the middle of the room, she was slowly losing patience.
It's not right.
I'm not feeling this piece.
Must start over.Her weary breath let out a thick puff of smoke, decided to ditch the whole piece (again after three or so tries) and start over from scratch, but good thing Mowgli, who was now bored of watching the pigeons dally by the window decided to bother his master by playfully nipping her leg, giving her a word of advice. The tiny creature was light enough to be carried with a single hand over his master's face, his eyes playfully focused on the dangling strand of her hair w/c the tabby proceeds to paw.
"What do you think, Mowgli?" The kitten curiously stared at the woman's intelligent eyes. "I greatly need your professional advice right now."
"Meow."
"What would Bellmer and Giacometti do if they were in my shoes? Do they finish up a bag in one go too?"
"Meow."
"I dont know if I'd want to. The weather's pretty wet. And cold. Mostly cold."
"Meow."
"Change my art style to Genre? Are you sure?"
"Meow."
"It's far from what I usually do. Although it'd be nice to try. And you're right, cooping up for days in this apartment is getting pretty unhealthy. I guess I should check out around town. See which would catch my inspiration."
"Meow."
"I suppose you'd like to come with?"
Mowgli switched his attention to the fascinating piece of candy wrapper by the night stand, jumping away from Nico's lap to rush over it.
"Suit yourself."
Thornhill hasnt changed that much since the last time she was here. The very same street where her parents used to drop her to the studio, which is now, coincidentally is just right next to the apartment building she's renting. There are a few changes here and there, but overall it's the same old Thornhill street. Taking a few steps out of the complex, she opened a black umbrella, her black trench coat catching a few droplets from the regressing rain. The first thing on her mind was to get some milk, always a number one priority above anything else, and maybe a walk at a couple of significant places around town. She got a glimpse of a towering silhouette over the grey sky, which is the church.
I should start there.