[while nothing in his home is strictly private (he lost any feelings of entitlement to his own privacy a very, very long time ago), the room on the other side of the threshold does not have the same inviting, charmingly haphazard feeling of the rest of the tent. it is not built for perusing, or even for display. it was put together with just one person in mind--and that person slithers over to prop his fake leg against the wall and make himself at home on a small pile of cushions.
at the entrance, the room is barely tall enough for Tek to comfortably stand, with the ceiling sloping gently downward from there towards the opposing wall. the whole thing is held up by surprisingly sturdy-looking framework, and insulated with tightly-stretched canvas. a majority of the wall space is taken up by shelving, hand-built from whatever scrap wood and metal could be scavenged, and filled with a dizzying number of small containers in all shapes and sizes. tin boxes, glass bottles, clay jars, paper bags, all of which are meticulously stacked and labeled with the same line of white paint and scrawl of tiny, black charcoal lettering over it.
not a single inch of useful space is going unused, with baskets of tools tucked into corners, metal trays and fuel canisters leaning in the gap between shelves, and bundles of herbs and other plants strung up to dry from the ceiling. part of a wall has been left open and painted black; it's currently covered in white chalk scribbles and mathematical calculations. the shelf behind Tonic is home to several living plants in shallow dishes and old jars, kept alive by the sickly, pale white glow of a sun-lamp that's practically held together with tape. the rest of the shelf holds paper bundles of food, a few bottles of very-expensive looking wines and alcohols, and his entire, humble collection of mismatched dishes.
other than the dingy lamp, there are no sources of light besides what's filtering in from the room behind them. a majority of the floor is covered by an old, threadbare rug. pushed against some of the shelves is a wooden board propped up on two cinder-blocks to serve as a table, set up with beakers and burners and a few leather-bound journals (and Tek has been here long enough to gather that these things may have very well cost more than the rest of the tent combined). whatever space was left on the floor has been filled with another low, small, square table, and two opposing piles of cushions to either side of it. it seems like the space is set up in case of company, but not in such a way that company is regularly expected.
Tonic's clothing shop is a work of art, an exploration of trial and error, a creative invitation to wander for both the customer and the creator. while the feeling of Tonic is still present in this back room, in the arrangement of mismatched objects and clever use of very little space, it is not an experiment. it's the culmination of two decades of collecting, learning, and perfecting--not a single container is out of place, no experiments have been left half-finished, and once he focuses, Tek will find that every single word Tonic has written in this room looks like unreadable, ciphered gibberish.
chaotic and masterful, this is a glimpse into the Tonic that never stops working, the Tonic who thinks very intentionally before committing to answers, and the Tonic who claims he is truly the best at what he does. he has carried some of these objects with him for years, and at times, they were the only things he had to define himself.
there are small traces of magic in this room just as there were in the last--but they're all sealed away in these containers, labeled as potion ingredients. Tonic stretches, looking very much at-home in this cramped little space.]
Welcome to the rest of the shop. [he sticks out his tongue again, jokingly, finding this entire sequence of events very funny.] Not much room, but make yourself at home.
no subject
at the entrance, the room is barely tall enough for Tek to comfortably stand, with the ceiling sloping gently downward from there towards the opposing wall. the whole thing is held up by surprisingly sturdy-looking framework, and insulated with tightly-stretched canvas. a majority of the wall space is taken up by shelving, hand-built from whatever scrap wood and metal could be scavenged, and filled with a dizzying number of small containers in all shapes and sizes. tin boxes, glass bottles, clay jars, paper bags, all of which are meticulously stacked and labeled with the same line of white paint and scrawl of tiny, black charcoal lettering over it.
not a single inch of useful space is going unused, with baskets of tools tucked into corners, metal trays and fuel canisters leaning in the gap between shelves, and bundles of herbs and other plants strung up to dry from the ceiling. part of a wall has been left open and painted black; it's currently covered in white chalk scribbles and mathematical calculations. the shelf behind Tonic is home to several living plants in shallow dishes and old jars, kept alive by the sickly, pale white glow of a sun-lamp that's practically held together with tape. the rest of the shelf holds paper bundles of food, a few bottles of very-expensive looking wines and alcohols, and his entire, humble collection of mismatched dishes.
other than the dingy lamp, there are no sources of light besides what's filtering in from the room behind them. a majority of the floor is covered by an old, threadbare rug. pushed against some of the shelves is a wooden board propped up on two cinder-blocks to serve as a table, set up with beakers and burners and a few leather-bound journals (and Tek has been here long enough to gather that these things may have very well cost more than the rest of the tent combined). whatever space was left on the floor has been filled with another low, small, square table, and two opposing piles of cushions to either side of it. it seems like the space is set up in case of company, but not in such a way that company is regularly expected.
Tonic's clothing shop is a work of art, an exploration of trial and error, a creative invitation to wander for both the customer and the creator. while the feeling of Tonic is still present in this back room, in the arrangement of mismatched objects and clever use of very little space, it is not an experiment. it's the culmination of two decades of collecting, learning, and perfecting--not a single container is out of place, no experiments have been left half-finished, and once he focuses, Tek will find that every single word Tonic has written in this room looks like unreadable, ciphered gibberish.
chaotic and masterful, this is a glimpse into the Tonic that never stops working, the Tonic who thinks very intentionally before committing to answers, and the Tonic who claims he is truly the best at what he does. he has carried some of these objects with him for years, and at times, they were the only things he had to define himself.
there are small traces of magic in this room just as there were in the last--but they're all sealed away in these containers, labeled as potion ingredients. Tonic stretches, looking very much at-home in this cramped little space.]
Welcome to the rest of the shop. [he sticks out his tongue again, jokingly, finding this entire sequence of events very funny.] Not much room, but make yourself at home.