ok, so when i saw pembroke’s post about printmaker!grantaire, i knew i had to draw it bc this is actually my headcanon. like, what would a classically trained painter with a bad case of cynicism and alcoholism do to earn his bread in the 1830’s? He’d make motherfucking prints.
He’d hole himself up in his garret with a stack of copperplates when the world would become too much. He’d find peace and serenity in the simplicity of trying to ink the perfect plate, gently wiping its surface over and over with tarpaulin, palm or forearm until satisfied. He’d find a quiet satisfaction in the physicality of the labor, cranking the heavy wheel of the press, or chiseling and filing away at the rough edges of a fresh plate. There would be the subtle element danger for him too, in the acid used to etch the plates and the rosin to tint them, and various chemicals used in the shop. He’d find companionship in chattering away for hours with his fellow printers.
The pleasure and distraction of a bustling print shop would allow him to forget, if only for a while, the fiery gaze of blue eyes, the disdainful toss of a gold crowned head, that passionate soul that threatened to consume his own.