Author Topic: La Chasse-Galerie  (Read 693 times)


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La Chasse-Galerie
« on: June 21, 2021, 03:50:58 AM »

(Art by the magnificent of clover and thistle
Don't add it to the portrait pack.
Click to download.)

Chasseur was a middle-aged man from Châteaufaux.
While the sight of his disfigured face was enough to turn some stomachs,
that impression paled in comparison to the dread and despair that clung to him like frost on a cloak.
As though caught in an eternal winter.

Strong and well-built, he seldom shed his uniform.
His cuirass might have been the only thing preventing his spine from collapsing on itself.
And he fought like an avalanche, with loveless parries and cold ripostes.
A force of nature devoid of pleasure, of hope.

His laughter was a short lived thunder. Laced with the bitter bite of irony. Mirthless and energetic.
But there was sign of spring still. A crystal rose of light pink on his cloak pin.
It jutted out like a snowdrop in January. Impervious to the frost.
« Last Edit: November 05, 2021, 08:46:00 PM by Haeresis »


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« Reply #1 on: June 21, 2021, 03:51:55 AM »
Quote from: Nocturne in Oil, Chasseur 776
The full moon hung from the sky like the barrel of a gun between the eyes. Larger than life. As though the stagehand working its pulleys had dropped it into the violent waters of the sea below. And the moon drowned. The waves that resembled the tentacles of a deep-sea creature dragged it down with them, to swallow it whole with the color of night.

The nocturnal landscape was saturated with shades of blue. Too much of it. From deep indigos to pale greys. It clogged the eyes with darkness that the bright moonlight could not banish. It obscured the sprawling beach in the foreground. Every stroke was minute, obsessive with the rendition of coastal dunes that stumbled over each other, in curves better suited on a feminine frame.

The sleepy sands captured the motions of shoulders and hips shifting beneath bed sheets. Of a chest that rose and fell in calm breath. Like there was someone beneath the surface, buried alive and slumbering. And yet still. At peace.
Desrosiers. 5,000. I think he really likes women. Maybe a little too much.

Quote from: L'autre, Chasseur 776
A portrait in oils. It showed the bust of a young man with the shine of a thousand stars in his eyes. In the prime of his life. Back when the world glowed with bright potential before invasion by the muted colors of maturity. He stood against a rural background that hearkened to that primeval time. Blue sky. Green grass. A fence. Some trees. A pastoral beauty that gave context to the subject.

He was quite handsome for a country boy. Strong. With masculine features harmonized by even proportions, and stubble that traced his jawline as fresh grass on windswept plains. Dark hair framed his face as cloudy waterfalls through which sunlight pierced in shy amounts. Even his skin was imprinted with that tan complexion of those who roamed free beneath the sky.

And his cheeks! Tinted red with sanguine joy. For he smiled. Not just with his eyes, but with his teeth.
Lacy. Gift. Her favorite.

Quote from: Âmes sereines, Chasseur 776
A crowded cemetery on a frigid autumn night. The ornate mausoleums filled the background as a sublime mountain range that had emerged from the pale mist which framed the image like frost on a window. There wasn't a living soul in sight there, in the distance. Not even the shadow of a ghost.

But the same could not be said of the square pond built at the foot of those stone giants. The water was agitated with primeval motion. It caught the moonlight in a dream-like blur. And upon the lily pads were frogs hunting the fireflies that buzzed around. One could almost hear the crickets, those wondrous denizens of the lower grasses. And at the heart of it all was a lone swan. Paler than death. With a beak the color of bone. Its creased feathers spread out as if to take flight, but its shadow deigned not let go. That dark patch of wrinkled fluid stalked the bird, as a demon under the floorboards. Viscous as sin.
Berger's favorite. And mine too.
« Last Edit: November 22, 2021, 06:27:02 AM by Haeresis »


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« Reply #2 on: September 02, 2021, 02:50:19 AM »
Quote from: Les portes de la faim, Chasseur 776
The sprawling, cyclopean wall in the foreground was taller than three men and wider than an army. In fact, there were a few such men for reference. They stood in the shadow of that stone monolith to shield themselves from the downpour but were dressed in rags and long coats unfit for the weather. With dry mouths ajar like black holes that hungered for the viewer. Toothless. Desperate.

Darkness reigned on their side of the wall. The campfires scattered about were dim. Unable to warm the errant ghosts gathered around them. And the cobbles were fractured. The walls separated all of them from the lights which danced among the rooftops as fireflies in the rain. There, beyond that silent gate.

The custodians who kept it closed were garbed in armor that hearkened to the distant past. Their cloaks were as fantastical wings draped around their shoulders. Armed with spear and glory, they kept the unworthy at bay. In the dark where they belonged.
That Vaillant girl was afraid the poor would eat her! She is wise to be.

Quote from: La crevaison, Chasseur 776
The scene in oil on canvas was the cross-section of a tailor shop, and the viewer was thrust in the heart of it. Mahogany furniture clogged the space while swirling cloths uplifted the color palette from the dimness of rich wood to the ludic pastels of high fashion.

But the focus here wasn't those yellows and blues, or the greens or violets. It was the blood red silks which a merchant and noblewoman shared between them. They hunched over their prize as though it was a well-kept secret. Their eyes bordered on greed. And their long fingers curled tight, smothering the fabrics. Which hadn't come from distant lands, as one might have expected.

The red silks spilled down from up high. A waterfall whose source was a spider, pinned there upon the ceiling by a blade. It was large. Too large to ignore. And yet as unmemorable as a neutral color. All that mattered to the two characters was the red it produced. A treasure only accessible through its bowels. Harvested by the sword.
De Sauvre. 25,000. The boy did us proud. Case closed.

Quote from: La chasse-galerie, Chasseur 776
The rush of an autumnal palette came with a bird's eye view over a forest and the river that cut through it. The one thing that stood out was the rowboat which levitated above ground, way up over the maple leaves and the patchwork of war-torn lands in the far west.

The boat was decrepit. Sure to take water faster than a racehorse. Manned by twelve men whose expressions were smudged in anguish by the horrors of war. Soldiers in uniforms so worn and muddy, their faces so hairy, that their mothers would never recognize them. Huddled together as sardines, they rowed with the last of their strength. Eastward, to the rising sun. To better days. Back home, where the water tasted like wine.

But there was a distinct sense of the sinister. Something about that captain whose horns curled on and on. His cloven hooves. And the whip which threatened the men. That thousand solar smile. The crew seemed on the cusp of exhaustion. Of succumbing to gravity.
Wish granpappy was here to see it. It was his favorite fairy tale.
« Last Edit: November 22, 2021, 06:25:40 AM by Haeresis »


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« Reply #3 on: October 25, 2021, 09:28:43 PM »
Quote from: Still Life in Oil, Chasseur 776
The painting in oils had a desaturated presentation, like the candlelight shining within had aged it by sheer proximity. And yet, the colors maintained the fresh texture of a slow and apprehensive brush.

It began with two majestic mounts of pale porcelain. Round and smooth on the eye. Droplets of water teased the edges of their curved bases as goosebumps. And between the two jugs was tucked in a red rose in full bloom, slick with the morning's dew. Its creased petals opened outwards as though the flower could sigh, and every stroke seethed with a quiet, electric charge. A lingering kind of fascination that loose lips were eager to express, but in quiet whispers.

The frontal and downcast light captured the undulating nuances of the image and gave it its depth of perspective. It loomed over the rose like a voyeuristic gaze. Threatening discovery, or judgement.
Desrosiers. 5,000. For his cousin. They think it's a flower.

Quote from: Ink and Oil on Canvas, Chasseur 776
The painting was a murder of bird scratches upon canvas, in black ink and oil paints. And it was a blurry sight. Like a dream remembered after the fact. It captured a dove's cage, a glasshouse supported by four pillars which met in the middle as outstretched hands. But two of them had crumbled in a cascade of ruined stone. The cage was askew as a result.

Breached like the hull of a ship lost at sea. And rain poured within as unwelcome sorrows. Four faceless shapes shared the space within, as shadowy silhouettes, their edges too vague for individuality. They held fast together.
My second piece. And two of the subjects turned out to be snakes.

Quote from: La magicienne au repos, Chasseur 776
The painting in oils was likely as close as anyone was going to get to the heart of the subject. The palette of rustic colors in what seemed like a stuffy dressing room - by the mirrors and workstation scattered orderly-like - was saturated by a blast of golden torchlight. Like the warmth of a hearth, or that of an old friend, it dawned over the subject at rest.

She was dark-haired and casual, with lively eyes and skin that the sun could compliment. And even if the chair she straddled was facing the wrong way and obscured her fine clothing with its high back, it could do nothing to conceal her sly and amicable expression. Any eye could tell she was in her element. Calm. And at home.

And a miasma of smoke agreed with all of it. Smudged in soft impressions of large fingertips, it filled the room with the promise of pleasant thoughts and light hearts, as powdered snow settling on distant mounts.
Seifert. Gift. Think it was for her pet snake.
« Last Edit: November 22, 2021, 06:25:33 AM by Haeresis »


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« Reply #4 on: October 25, 2021, 09:58:27 PM »
Quote from: Pluie et châtiment, Chasseur 776
The painting showcased an oily cascade of thick droplets, flung at the viewer like mud in the eyes. It was the pitter patter of rain on a window. And behind the downpour of distorted colors was a nightly cityscape.

The familiar façade of the library, and the rooftops dwarfed by the Cathedral, depicted a sprawling road upon which danced the lamp lights, and the pastel dresses of noblewomen gravitating around the squarer silhouettes that chaperoned them. Umbrellas hovered over the gliding characters, as lily pads on still water. And upon them sat crouched specters.

There was a soundless music embedded in the picture. A hidden melody behind the painter's hand. But only those gargoyles knew the notes. And they were sinister. Vaguely resembling animals on four legs, with beady, white eyes that couldn't blink. And their shadows haunted deeper in the penumbra of bright lights. They were aberrant stains in the idyllic nocturne. Ever watchful.
Vastly underrated, if you ask me.

Quote from: Tempête saisonnière, Chasseur 776
There was a pale sea beneath the overcast sky. It was a chaotic force that rushed left and right. The restless waves crashed and came apart. Here, they coiled as brothers. And there, they unraveled as quarreling lovers. Serpentine and sharp. There were venomous highlights in those waters, like in motion sickness the surface wrestled decay out of the depths of the abyss.

And the winds in white streaks swirled about like worried birds with shallow breaths. Gentle huffs that blunted the waves. That sought to soothe the violence present there, in those jagged edges. But the water was vast. It unraveled like a tapestry beyond the horizon. There was a single witness to the primal scene. Standing there on a slab of smooth stone which floated there on the water like a false island. And she was dwarfed by those elemental titans. With her hands clasped together, she watched. While nature cried and rebelled, she watched. While the storm brewed in the distance, the girl watched and watched.
Nadia posed for this one.

Quote from: Chez Léon, Chasseur 776
The scene presented an outdoor café inhabited by solid silhouettes done in a torrent of imprecise strokes. Men and women mingled in fashionable pastels. They were engaged in simple, civil pleasures. Arms open. Sharing drinks and newspapers. There was even a musician who railed against his violin with a lover's passion. Together they basked in the harmonious proximity afforded to those who were cut from the same cloth. Carefree.

By the lighting on the periphery, it was the dead of night. That time when branches could be mistaken for crooked, malicious fingers. And willow leaves for clammy hair. That's what was there in the background, by the nook where a pallid fountain stood. Shapes among the trees that jumped to the eye one moment, then disappeared the next when the viewer attended to them. As unwelcome specters, they dwelled in that urban jungle of primeval green, unable to trespass on those genteel folk.
Marco's favorite. 10,000. I wish my truth hadn't dimmed the light in his eyes.
« Last Edit: November 22, 2021, 06:25:24 AM by Haeresis »


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« Reply #5 on: October 30, 2021, 11:19:59 PM »
Quote from: La maison d'antan, Chasseur 776
A country road spilled forward like a red carpet, framed by birches. Sentinels that guarded a square estate, with their leaves meeting in the middle to form a bushy moustache over the front doors. And while the dark sky was colored by specks of dawn, they were too few and far between to call them morning.

It was dark enough that one could see through the windows of the third floor. Through the bright candlelight that spat out from them. The left one harbored a pair of shadows. One towering over the other, as though devouring it by sheer size and a raised hand. In the other, a smaller shape had its face and hands pressed onto the window. Pressed so hard the glass flexed.

Those windows were as crooked eyes on the mansion's façade. And the iron wrought fence was reminiscent of a hairy jawline. Rusted like red hair. Rusted from the rain whose passage left wet marks on the glossy walls, and the fog that spread like a heavy breath in the winter.
When our forefathers hang like ghosts around the house.

Quote from: Soupire, Chasseur 776
The still life could better be described as a still death. There was a flat hardwood surface upon which were a dozen flowers split in two bouquets. Against a crimson wall, they laid on their side as a pile of snakes riding upon one other. Kept together by the flimsy twine which they tried to escape. As though it was a noose which threatened to choke them. Or perhaps a mass grave.

Tulips, roses, lilies, daffodils, and chrysanthemums. In decay, they all looked the same. Their petals were shriveled like the charcoals of a cold hearth. A mixture of greys and darker tones. Highlights of white that hearkened to bone. There was no life to be found in those swirling patterns. Neither bloom, nor color.
They wilt in my hands. And when I'm buried I'll poison the earth too.

Quote from: Un baiser, Camus 776
The fireplace radiated such flames that shadows were scattered in all corners of the oil painting. Which was otherwise rather dim, sinister. There were two silhouettes there. A man in a pale suit, and a woman in a blue dress that was rather revealing around the chest. The two were entangled in a kiss as two beasts testing the other’s jaw strength. Primal and ravenous, their fingers crooked violently in the other’s clothes which bunched up as gift wrap on the cusp of tearing.

The shadows which they left behind on the back wall were twisted. There was a hint of fang and tail there. One monster devouring the other.
It's a dog eats dog world out there.
« Last Edit: November 22, 2021, 06:25:15 AM by Haeresis »


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« Reply #6 on: November 16, 2021, 10:29:51 PM »
Quote from: Pénombre, Chasseur 776
The view pored over three walls of interlocked stone bricks. Insurmountable. In which square windows were carved. With bars fixed there on the sills. Shrouded in penumbra, the contents of the cell were difficult to discern. Vague shapes were huddled together in the dark at varying heights. And their eyes were soulless slits which tracked the viewer's movements.

Sunrays poured in through the windows, cutting the picture at triangular angles. Pure enough that they collided as spotlights on a stage, and yet they failed to shed light on those shapes hidden in the dark. The light missed them by a hair.
The devil is in the details.

Quote from: L'allergie, Chasseur 776
The scene pictured here was one of classical warfare, in which a narrow street was framed by old houses. And haphazard furniture formed a mountain of wood, like a barricade resembling a pile of bone. There were cannons in the periphery, facing that way as a firing squad of the highest caliber. The men who manned them were dressed in fine clothing. Their faces powdered amidst the gunpowder smoke. And their white wigs billowing in the wind.

They had fired at those who marched toward them. Men. Women. Children. Filing out in an orderly fashion as lambs to the slaughter. There wasn't a single head among them. A crowd of headless targets stained with red from the neck down. Neither sword nor pistol laid in sight. In their hands, they carried harmless things. Quills. Pens. Cigarettes. Flasks. Bottles. Books. Dolls.
They see red when they see red.

Quote from: La défense, Chasseur 776
The painting detailed the interior of a profound courtroom devoid of windows. Light came in the form of candles on small plates, upheld by the members of a faceless crowd in the background. They stood vigil, as though at a funeral. But there was no coffin to be found.

Before them, a man in simple clothes stood beneath a dim spotlight, as he faced three long shadows that stretched toward him. They slithered down a flight of stairs and stopped on the edge of the pedestal where he stood. They were silent judges that hounded the edges, sinuous as the long fingers of a crooked hand.

The man had neither pockets on his clothes, nor objects to hold onto. His hands were open books in which one could read the creases of his labored palms. He held them up for the judges to see. Beckoning them to take a long, hard look. And on his left was a chair where a lawyer might have sat. Vacant.
I hate lawyers.
« Last Edit: November 22, 2021, 06:25:06 AM by Haeresis »


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« Reply #7 on: November 30, 2021, 09:30:08 PM »
A battle lost in advance
Against beauty askance
In the glory of shame
He shudders in the flame
Cold henceforth
In the shadow of the north

That sullen, tattered coat
Cloaks the hideous goat
A merciless sin
Unforgivable, his grin
Worse, frightful
Beauty most hateful
At the feet of herons
In their nests of pardons
For those with wings
Wings the white of kings
He mirrors those avian blurs
Buried by his pungent furs

His war against faith
Haunts him. That wraith
That faceless judge
Trudges in the sludge

Ardent light colors his spite
Colors of pain reflect
The terrain


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« Reply #8 on: December 05, 2021, 09:21:18 PM »
Quote from: Stygia, Chasseur 776
The painting was wrought from a slow, lethargic hand. A landscape of ice whose brush strokes were reminiscent of frost on a window, as the oils gave it a sharp texture. The wintered desert was barren of structures or motion. Soundless and sunless. It stretched as far as the eye could see. And in the background were monolithic cliffs which loomed over the flatland as pallbearers at a funeral. From their distant perch, they watched the vastness below.

A single trail of dark footprints told the tale of a lifeless trudge through lethal cold. It stretched from one end of the picture to the other. And along its arc was a dark shape in a tattered cloak. A man who dragged himself forward, smothered by a stygian chase against time. There was no sign of fire or hearth waiting for him at the end. But it seemed like a road he'd taken many times before.

His minuscule life cast a long shadow. The most he could hope to achieve.
They give me just enough rope to hang myself with.
Maybe 777 will be my lucky year.
Probably not.
« Last Edit: December 05, 2021, 10:41:33 PM by Haeresis »


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« Reply #9 on: December 16, 2021, 08:56:00 AM »
Quote from: Le dégoût, Chasseur 776
The oil painting had the texture of sludge, of slime dripping down the canvas. It depicted a cellar that better resembled a dank cave by the cobwebs which dangled from the ceiling as strings of saliva in a dog’s maw. Not a live spider in sight. They were all dead in their webs as moist crumbs of food between the teeth.

The earthen walls were damp, and they crumbled in on themselves, revealing rotten holes which rats used as tunnels to invade in swarms. They were present there as a sea of dirty fur, haranguing punctured bags of grain which were stored in the cellar. The grain they nibbled on was morose with green mold, but it didn't stop them.

All those putrid things met in the air in a visible cocktail of stink, as spectral algae trapped underground. The door that led upstairs was open, and there stood a lone figure upholding a lantern. And a sickly handkerchief to his swollen, clogged nose.
They avert their eyes.

Quote from: L'asphyxie, Chasseur 776
The oil painting had the granular, oily texture of wet stone. It pictured a rundown street populated by crooked houses whose wooden beams were soggy and cracked, and better suited for the bottom of a bog. They jutted out like uneven ribs in their cage. The long stretch of cobbles itself was no better. It looked much like old skin with pus-ridden pores. Fungi peeked out between the stones, drinking in the pungent air with their twisted hats.

Amidst the urban rot were people shrouded in cloaks and scarves to protect their nose from the stench, and their skin from the acid rain which poured down like diseased worms. Some clutched bottles of perfume in their blackened hands. Others who had no such luxuries were afflicted with a ratty look; their noses inflamed with the threat of noxious fumes.

The people scrambled for pockets of fresh air in the sun-scorched carcass like whalers in the belly of a putrefied whale.
And turn up their nose.

Quote from: La malade, Chasseur 776
The portrait must have been exhumed from a decrepit attic because the paint was cracked and flaked like a dandruffed scalp. The drab colors loomed towards yellowish, cold hues that underlined the sickly pallor of the woman framed there. She could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty years old, with dark eyes sunken by sleepless nights. Eyes further haunted by their piss-stained whites.

Decay corroded the angular edges of her bone structure which, in health, were sure to pass as comely. And the flush of her cheeks wasn’t caused by makeup, but by an unclean slew of red rashes. Her anemic lips were dry as raisins. Pink, as full of life as the flesh of dead fish.

Her neutral expression alluded to silent suffering, otherwise laid bare on her ravaged face, as she sat on a wooden chair against a sickening beige wall, garbed in the sort of fine dress which the dead wore in their coffin. Whatever afflicted her might have been contagious. Even the cockroach at her feet had crawled there and died.
My work sickens them. Just as they sicken me.