He is, in essence, aching perfection. Each movement, from the swipe of a brush to the slap of a paint-coated hand on canvas, is carefully measured as to the effect it will produce. Nothing is an accident.
Viggo's cheek is streaked with blue, having transferred from the heel of his hand in the middle of a creative burst. He doesn't notice or care. Nothing stands in his way during the creation of a frame of his reality.
His feet are bare and they stick slightly to the plastic drop sheet as he steps forward and away from the canvas. He doesn't notice that, either. Perspective is key to production.
When he has placed all the paint he intends to place, the brush is left in the rainbow-speckled utility bucket and set to the side. Viggo knows better than to overdue it.
He dips his fingers into another bucket, gathering water on his skin. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the droplets land on the fresh paint. It takes a moment and a bit more water, but the paint begins to run in thin rivulets. He imagines that the painting is telling him a story.
'Finished' was an ususual term. He never finished a painting. They, however, finished with him. They told him when to stop adding.
This one was finished. The rivulets of water had run as far as they were going to and the proverbial tears had dried.
Viggo felt in his pocket for a permanent marker. Crouching down, he placed the cap between his teeth and pulled the body of it free. Careful strokes on the corner of the finished work produced the phrase 'It can't rain all the time' followed by the round scrawl of his initials.
Work, somehow, was lighter when it came from within.