Cybele's Garden | En Plein Air
Amber tones of early morning light hugged the dew from the night prior cradled against the leaves, pooling off into tiny rivulets as they're disturbed by a figure coasting through the brush. At this time of year, Cybele's Garden was typically host to a plethora of couples and throuples offering up displays of love to their goddess, however a rather frightful rain the night prior had left the earth muddy, the now slick and frigid earth generally an unwelcome presence as it clung to one's fetlocks. But the rain had broken, clouds parting at the break of dawn, the so-sought golden hour. The timing was perfect, kismet even, but the window was still ever dwindling.
Still, as Locke crossed the threshold and made his way into the garden, a few stragglers remained. Holdovers from the night before, most likely, either too devoted or too stubborn to leave before making their offering; And it showed how they were caked with damp earth and though in high spirits one could almost hear the chattering of teeth between bubbles of laughter, huddling together to share warmth and try to stave off the inevitable cold they would be getting from this excursion. He didn't pay them much mind, save for popping his collar a little to obscure his presence as much as necessary; Didn't want to deal with the distraction nor the attention as he surveyed out a solitary plot with which to get to work.
Eventually he found his charge, a gazebo that stood far enough to the fringes that no one had decided to make camp there. Approaching it, he pressed two fingertips against the seat and swiped it along the wood grain, breathing out a sigh of relief that the interior had remained mostly dry. Brushing his tail aside as he sat, Locke propped one knee over the other and shouldered off the messenger bag he had brought with him. setting it in his lap he dug through the carrier, placing a small portable easel and paint palette beside him. Surveying the environment, he squinted one eye closed and directed his hands as if they were a frame to find the 'perfect shot'. The clouds that still hung in the sky danced dappled light, god rays soaking the moisture of the air to illuminate it with honeyed hues. Eyes following that train of light, they draw their way towards the center of the garden, where sculptures meant to signify Cybele in reverence came into view. The ivy that crawled up the marble obelisks kissed the coming day in a matter one could only describe as intimate; stone sleek with rain and dew giving off the near illusion that the structures glowed. If Cybele chose to deign her presence to the lives of mortal moo in such an indirect way, it would be this, the imagery swelling with warmth and renewal. Light after the storm, dawn breaking the sky, a winter into spring, all emblematic of the cyclical nature of consummation and rebirth. A moment to capture before fading into the deep blue of morning. Time to get to work.
Wetting the brush and dabbing it against the roughly toothed paper was like a trance, lost to the focus of capturing this little window of time that would be lost from simply taking a snapshot. Typically, Locke kept his reference material to photos, rarely taking the plunge of painting from life; The anxiety mostly stemming from being percieved in a manner he couldn't control as readily as the typical interpersonal interactions he held day by day. But those were thoughts he pushed to the back of his head, allowed them to fade away for the moment, not allowing any meter of self doubt to cloud his means of reverence.
As the sun breached the horizon line, the clouds dissipated, the idyllic blanketing of warm light fracturing into a pale sky. But it was enough, Locke delicately applying finishing strokes then setting the painting out to dry in the now warm air as he began to rifle through his bags again. A nice day, the garden was sure to become populated again soon enough anyways, his hide bound to become compromised if he didn't start to pack it up. Pulling out a simple frame, a pane of glass to protect from the elements, he tucks the rest of his tools away. Collecting a few rosebuds, he prunes them delicately, with care to not prick himself nor damage the integrity of the bushes. Tying them together in a simple, delicate bow, he palms his makeshift bouquet in his hands for a few moments, then turns his attention back to his muse. Placing the bouquet down against the base of the sculpture, Locke arranges it carefully, then slips the now dry watercolor into the frame to create a tiny impromptu shrine. Eyes drifting closed, the pheromoo bows his head in a silent prayer, and takes one last wavering glance at his handiwork before shouldering the messenger bag once again and slipping out of the garden.
