07-13-2016, 12:07 AM
"You kids, these days..."
Arturo Nihm, guest currator, collector and recluse in the broad city of Denver (or it's outskirts) flicks the door with his fingers. It swings open a slight amount more and they are admitted just like that. No fanfare or suggestive interaction with William's decrees or Margot's fluttering nod of enthusiasm (Arturo was not familiar with her anxiety issues). The shotgun remains on his shoulder, toted like some ancient civil war veteran, while he saunters gingerly back across the marbled floors and into the manor.
The interior of the main hall is as it suggested: stark walls with a painting set at regular intervals as the hallway continues. A solid fifty feet of extended marble floors, seamless if the eye were to search the veins of silver that crackle and creep through the white. How such a thing is possible, is best left to masons and imaginations.
The hall has no adjoining doors and entry points, save for the large black wood double doors on it's opposite side. There are no other furnishings or suggestion of accessories in this large open space. Just the paintings of abstract colour slashes on the walls, a series of the same artist if the themes and motives within are to be believed. Arturo marches past them all without a backward glance, stepping up to the double doors and pulling one open to venture inside.
"I'm not one to disappoint people. Not easily, anyway. It's one of the reasons I moved out here. I'm left alone, they don't get disappointed. Win, win scenario." He has that old, gruff sort of rasp to his voice that bounces and dances about with his words, as if he is used to having conversations with himself and is perfectly content with such efforts.
The doors lead into a rather large and frankly, obtusely opposing room beyond the oddly neutral hallway they had walked through: A study.
A cherrywood desk dominates the room, which stretches for nearly as long as the front hall, only perpendicular. The walls are littered with various articles and pieces and colourful accessories from all walks and cultures, feathers, beads, necklaces, aging parchments and shelves of tomes and books sitting on cupboards and shelves and pressed into crates in the corner. There is an old Victrola sitting on an archaic iron wrought stand that looks like the skeleton of a beetle or scarab, while a rather sturdy record collection (mostly jazz and early blues judging by the top most visible records) sit in neat piles around it.
Several couches of immaculate leather, shaped into the sorts of things you'd find in victorian houses or boudoirs, or at least owned by people who use words like Boudoir, hug the walls, filled up with a number of other accessories: a Globe, made of gleaming black and inlaid with gold embroidery to outline the various countries and continents. A strangely gruesome mask, that hangs off the corner of one of the couches arms, somewhat precarious and haphazard in it's placement. What looks like a ritual dagger, stuffed between the cushions, the handle a gleaming ivory bone, curved into a grip and ending in a small, blunted point.
The furthest part of the room, the last ten feet before another door, closed and made of, what looks like, modern steel with a simple handle, is dominated by a pair of cushioned chairs, facing one another. A large ornately carved wooden table sits between them, sporting an in-built chessboard of perfectly tiled marvelousness. The figures are setup in a game already underway, though who the opponent is, is anyone's guess. Oddly, each piece looks the exact same as each of the others, with only the slightest of height differences indicating the possibility of some from others. Simple wood, crudely carved and somewhat out of place of the rest of the Archaic Wonder that is Arturo Nihm's study.
You'd think that some movie title Pixar would aim to put out later in the year.
Arturo climbs over several boxes, around a small stack of books he has to steady with one hand when it begins to teeter and sway and finally climbs into one of The. Most. Comfortable. Looking. Chairs. Ev.er. Like someone folded so many different layers of foam and leather together, as to construct a device from which no human ass would ever want to vacate. He eases into it with a sigh of pleasure, a large tome of some sort with aging yellow paper infront of him. Leaning back, the shotgun settled on the desk beside the book, he inspects the pair of them.
"Admittedly? I don't get many guests. Especially young ones and the young ones I do get, tend to be demanding little shits who think they know best, despite all the mistakes I remember them making when they were dick high and growlie. So why don't you tell me what you want exactly and I'll decide for myself what sort of nonsense you want to know about."
Arturo Nihm, guest currator, collector and recluse in the broad city of Denver (or it's outskirts) flicks the door with his fingers. It swings open a slight amount more and they are admitted just like that. No fanfare or suggestive interaction with William's decrees or Margot's fluttering nod of enthusiasm (Arturo was not familiar with her anxiety issues). The shotgun remains on his shoulder, toted like some ancient civil war veteran, while he saunters gingerly back across the marbled floors and into the manor.
The interior of the main hall is as it suggested: stark walls with a painting set at regular intervals as the hallway continues. A solid fifty feet of extended marble floors, seamless if the eye were to search the veins of silver that crackle and creep through the white. How such a thing is possible, is best left to masons and imaginations.
The hall has no adjoining doors and entry points, save for the large black wood double doors on it's opposite side. There are no other furnishings or suggestion of accessories in this large open space. Just the paintings of abstract colour slashes on the walls, a series of the same artist if the themes and motives within are to be believed. Arturo marches past them all without a backward glance, stepping up to the double doors and pulling one open to venture inside.
"I'm not one to disappoint people. Not easily, anyway. It's one of the reasons I moved out here. I'm left alone, they don't get disappointed. Win, win scenario." He has that old, gruff sort of rasp to his voice that bounces and dances about with his words, as if he is used to having conversations with himself and is perfectly content with such efforts.
The doors lead into a rather large and frankly, obtusely opposing room beyond the oddly neutral hallway they had walked through: A study.
A cherrywood desk dominates the room, which stretches for nearly as long as the front hall, only perpendicular. The walls are littered with various articles and pieces and colourful accessories from all walks and cultures, feathers, beads, necklaces, aging parchments and shelves of tomes and books sitting on cupboards and shelves and pressed into crates in the corner. There is an old Victrola sitting on an archaic iron wrought stand that looks like the skeleton of a beetle or scarab, while a rather sturdy record collection (mostly jazz and early blues judging by the top most visible records) sit in neat piles around it.
Several couches of immaculate leather, shaped into the sorts of things you'd find in victorian houses or boudoirs, or at least owned by people who use words like Boudoir, hug the walls, filled up with a number of other accessories: a Globe, made of gleaming black and inlaid with gold embroidery to outline the various countries and continents. A strangely gruesome mask, that hangs off the corner of one of the couches arms, somewhat precarious and haphazard in it's placement. What looks like a ritual dagger, stuffed between the cushions, the handle a gleaming ivory bone, curved into a grip and ending in a small, blunted point.
The furthest part of the room, the last ten feet before another door, closed and made of, what looks like, modern steel with a simple handle, is dominated by a pair of cushioned chairs, facing one another. A large ornately carved wooden table sits between them, sporting an in-built chessboard of perfectly tiled marvelousness. The figures are setup in a game already underway, though who the opponent is, is anyone's guess. Oddly, each piece looks the exact same as each of the others, with only the slightest of height differences indicating the possibility of some from others. Simple wood, crudely carved and somewhat out of place of the rest of the Archaic Wonder that is Arturo Nihm's study.
You'd think that some movie title Pixar would aim to put out later in the year.
Arturo climbs over several boxes, around a small stack of books he has to steady with one hand when it begins to teeter and sway and finally climbs into one of The. Most. Comfortable. Looking. Chairs. Ev.er. Like someone folded so many different layers of foam and leather together, as to construct a device from which no human ass would ever want to vacate. He eases into it with a sigh of pleasure, a large tome of some sort with aging yellow paper infront of him. Leaning back, the shotgun settled on the desk beside the book, he inspects the pair of them.
"Admittedly? I don't get many guests. Especially young ones and the young ones I do get, tend to be demanding little shits who think they know best, despite all the mistakes I remember them making when they were dick high and growlie. So why don't you tell me what you want exactly and I'll decide for myself what sort of nonsense you want to know about."