He gives him a long, thoughtful look. Angels sometimes have sweet memories of their favored vessels in his own world, but that's few and far between. He does. He knows Raphael did, only because he showed him once, a long time ago.
He's not sure Raphael is that same angel at this point.
Anna had love for the humans she grew up with. The parents that were killed when she began to recover herself. Friends, probably, or more distant family. And Castiel has his regrets regarding the Novak family, as well as his love for the idiot boys who think he's their pet angel. And Balthazar has Levi Gilman.
But he can't think of anyone else who talked of humans with tenderness. Who would cook a meal for a dying human. Who would grieve for one. He says nothing, but his Grace reaches out, nudging against Lucifer like a shy cat looking for petting, giving comfort by giving trust.
"I'm nowhere near as good," he says of his painting, but enters the room and beckons the other angel after him. "I've got photorealism down, but there was soul in his art that I can't seem to match."
There are some very elegant sketches of architecture on a desk, and there's a painting of a spider in a web on the easel. The details are perfect; Balthazar doesn't have thousands of eyes only to lack in observational skills. They're not bad. Probably he's hypercritical, but there's not much of a statement behind any of his work aside from 'hey, check out this thing I saw!"
He reaches up and draws aside a curtain at one end of the room, which hangs over a collection of framed sketches--and a single painting--on the wall. "These are his. I kept them. Well, I kept the drawings. I bought the painting at auction."
They're very different. Messy, turbulent, active drawings that seem to spring from the page. Less accurate, but there's a lot of passion translated to the paper and the canvas. The three sketches he's got are very obviously angels. One is just a humanoid figure with wings, but the other two are more like an Ofanite's true form, wheels of eyes and flame.
Below them, the painting is of a black man half-sprawled in a chair, with a trumpet in his hands. He's laughing about something and the way the light is rendered on his form is impressionistic, but nothing short of tender.
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branchandroot
sorry for the tl;dr
Date: 2019-09-07 03:23 pm (UTC)He's not sure Raphael is that same angel at this point.
Anna had love for the humans she grew up with. The parents that were killed when she began to recover herself. Friends, probably, or more distant family. And Castiel has his regrets regarding the Novak family, as well as his love for the idiot boys who think he's their pet angel. And Balthazar has Levi Gilman.
But he can't think of anyone else who talked of humans with tenderness. Who would cook a meal for a dying human. Who would grieve for one. He says nothing, but his Grace reaches out, nudging against Lucifer like a shy cat looking for petting, giving comfort by giving trust.
"I'm nowhere near as good," he says of his painting, but enters the room and beckons the other angel after him. "I've got photorealism down, but there was soul in his art that I can't seem to match."
There are some very elegant sketches of architecture on a desk, and there's a painting of a spider in a web on the easel. The details are perfect; Balthazar doesn't have thousands of eyes only to lack in observational skills. They're not bad. Probably he's hypercritical, but there's not much of a statement behind any of his work aside from 'hey, check out this thing I saw!"
He reaches up and draws aside a curtain at one end of the room, which hangs over a collection of framed sketches--and a single painting--on the wall. "These are his. I kept them. Well, I kept the drawings. I bought the painting at auction."
They're very different. Messy, turbulent, active drawings that seem to spring from the page. Less accurate, but there's a lot of passion translated to the paper and the canvas. The three sketches he's got are very obviously angels. One is just a humanoid figure with wings, but the other two are more like an Ofanite's true form, wheels of eyes and flame.
Below them, the painting is of a black man half-sprawled in a chair, with a trumpet in his hands. He's laughing about something and the way the light is rendered on his form is impressionistic, but nothing short of tender.