"Not by me?" he says. "Like ... I mean, I know little about other scribal traditions. But Tatty Velvl expected me to cut mine own quills ..." he trails off, having picked up one of the brushes again. He's studying the bristles intently, one eye — the worse one — closed so he can actually see what he's trying to focus on. He's brought his reading glasses, but he's not feeling particularly bothered to fish them out.
And then, still intently studying the brush, he says, "so like, what's the ink made of? If not shale."
He smiles, faintly. He's eager to talk about his own views on art, on calligraphy especially, but despite everything, Lev is still painfully shy — and it's easier for him to talk about himself once the rhythm of conversation is established. Hence this attempt to draw Qingqiu into talking first.
After all, when someone else is rambling too, it's easier to feel less self-conscious about replying in kind.
Edited (added introspection) Date: 2025-07-18 04:17 am (UTC)
"Oh?" Shen Qingqiu raises his brows in genuine, if teasing interest. "I hope you're planning to show me how that's done at some point. Historically, there have been a few schools of art in China that used feather quills or pens carved from bamboo stalks, but I lack training in those areas."
But first, the ink. He picks up a solid cylinder, wrapped in foil, and hands it to Lev. "This is the ink. The two primary ingredients are soot and animal protein, plus a bit of incense for aesthetics. I use soot made from burning pine logs and mix it with egg whites into a kind of dough --" The Vileplume suddenly lets out a grunt, making Shen Qingqiu laugh. "-- and pollen from Raffles' flower, how could I forget? I work the dough until it begins to turn firm, and then I compress it with spiritual power until it forms this solid shape. Here..." He begins to show Lev how to grind the ink into the inkstone's well, filling the water with opaque blackness. "You can vary how long you do this and how hard you press, to make darker or lighter ink," he explains. "My Binghe used to be a master at grinding ink. He'd sit next to me for hours, grinding away without ever a word of complaint." He smiles sadly, looking nostalgic. "What a silly boy."
"I'd love to show thee!" he exclaims. "As long like. As long as thou take'st upon thyself to procure the goosefeathers, nu?"
He watches Qingqiu grind the ink; when the Vileplume requests due credit for helping make the inkstone, Lev laughs and acknowledges Raffles with a quick bow. But when Qingqiu brings up his ill-starred apprentice, Lev frowns, hiding the expression behind his hand. He's come to see the matter of Luo Binghe as a delicate topic. Or at least an upsetting one.
"How like, lightfast is the ink?" he asks, picking up a brush. "Like ... keeps it is colour over the centuries?"
He feels a little sheepish changing the subject so blatantly; but on some level, he hopes that Qingqiu does notice that it's a deliberate move on his part, and either persists or follows along. He hasn't yet figured out how to ask his boyfriend if he's up to maybe unburdening his heart.
Shen Qingqiu appears not to notice anything untoward about the sudden subject change; he nods seriously and explains, "Pigmented ink made for painting tends to fade if exposed to direct sunlight, especially oranges and reds. But this black ink will likely outlast the paper we apply it to. Ink made from wood ash is usually strong alkaline, which can eat away at the organic compounds in paper whether it's made from wood or cloth." He smiles bashfully. "I'm given to understand that preserving centuries-old Chinese paintings are the biggest headaches out there for museum curators, at least in my world. But when it comes to doing traditional calligraphy, traditionally-made ink really is the best."
It's time for a demonstration. Holding the brush lightly between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, he begins to draw the first characters of 'Quiet Night Thoughts.' The fact that said poem is centered around yearning for one's home and familiar faces is, of course, a complete coincidence.
Lev watches Qingqiu draw the characters, watches his hand more than the marks the brush makes, listens to Qingqiu discuss the ink and paper.
"Thou'lt have to tell me what it means," he says, finally, nodding at the characters his boyfriend's drawn. "We've like, got all afternoon, nu? And there's like. Not no rush."
He's grateful to have this time, out in the sunshine, sharing something he's always loved (and almost always been good at) with Qingqiu. Even here in farthest exile, there's still love and joy. And that's enough.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2025-07-18 04:10 am (UTC)Lev shakes his head, smiling.
"Not by me?" he says. "Like ... I mean, I know little about other scribal traditions. But Tatty Velvl expected me to cut mine own quills ..." he trails off, having picked up one of the brushes again. He's studying the bristles intently, one eye — the worse one — closed so he can actually see what he's trying to focus on. He's brought his reading glasses, but he's not feeling particularly bothered to fish them out.
And then, still intently studying the brush, he says, "so like, what's the ink made of? If not shale."
He smiles, faintly. He's eager to talk about his own views on art, on calligraphy especially, but despite everything, Lev is still painfully shy — and it's easier for him to talk about himself once the rhythm of conversation is established. Hence this attempt to draw Qingqiu into talking first.
After all, when someone else is rambling too, it's easier to feel less self-conscious about replying in kind.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-23 05:18 pm (UTC)But first, the ink. He picks up a solid cylinder, wrapped in foil, and hands it to Lev. "This is the ink. The two primary ingredients are soot and animal protein, plus a bit of incense for aesthetics. I use soot made from burning pine logs and mix it with egg whites into a kind of dough --" The Vileplume suddenly lets out a grunt, making Shen Qingqiu laugh. "-- and pollen from Raffles' flower, how could I forget? I work the dough until it begins to turn firm, and then I compress it with spiritual power until it forms this solid shape. Here..." He begins to show Lev how to grind the ink into the inkstone's well, filling the water with opaque blackness. "You can vary how long you do this and how hard you press, to make darker or lighter ink," he explains. "My Binghe used to be a master at grinding ink. He'd sit next to me for hours, grinding away without ever a word of complaint." He smiles sadly, looking nostalgic. "What a silly boy."
no subject
Date: 2025-09-01 10:49 am (UTC)Lev beams.
"I'd love to show thee!" he exclaims. "As long like. As long as thou take'st upon thyself to procure the goosefeathers, nu?"
He watches Qingqiu grind the ink; when the Vileplume requests due credit for helping make the inkstone, Lev laughs and acknowledges Raffles with a quick bow. But when Qingqiu brings up his ill-starred apprentice, Lev frowns, hiding the expression behind his hand. He's come to see the matter of Luo Binghe as a delicate topic. Or at least an upsetting one.
"How like, lightfast is the ink?" he asks, picking up a brush. "Like ... keeps it is colour over the centuries?"
He feels a little sheepish changing the subject so blatantly; but on some level, he hopes that Qingqiu does notice that it's a deliberate move on his part, and either persists or follows along. He hasn't yet figured out how to ask his boyfriend if he's up to maybe unburdening his heart.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-09 01:42 am (UTC)It's time for a demonstration. Holding the brush lightly between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, he begins to draw the first characters of 'Quiet Night Thoughts.' The fact that said poem is centered around yearning for one's home and familiar faces is, of course, a complete coincidence.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-17 03:18 am (UTC)Lev watches Qingqiu draw the characters, watches his hand more than the marks the brush makes, listens to Qingqiu discuss the ink and paper.
"Thou'lt have to tell me what it means," he says, finally, nodding at the characters his boyfriend's drawn. "We've like, got all afternoon, nu? And there's like. Not no rush."
He's grateful to have this time, out in the sunshine, sharing something he's always loved (and almost always been good at) with Qingqiu. Even here in farthest exile, there's still love and joy. And that's enough.