Imp returned some fifteen minutes later, a "to go" plate clenched precariously between his teeth. There were sausages on this plate, and gravy, and hot mashed potatoes; and Imp set this aside as he started to look over his equipment.
At some point, he'd gone and restarted the record; as time went on he continued to do this periodically, often whenever he seemed most lacking in inspiration. In, as it were, artistic muse.
He examined the paints, which--for a hybrid animal--apparently included sniffing and tasting them. Thus, Imp wound up with a black-stained tongue and (for a little while) rather dazed expression. But, true to his word and to that boundless energy that drove him, he soon got genuinely to work.
Much of it was testing: experimentation, throwing things (sometimes quite literally) at the canvas and seeing what would stick. It took him time to figure out how to thin the paint and clean the brushes, as expected; it took time to figure out what colors mixed, and how long the paint took to dry, and which brushes were best for which strokes.
The palette knives he rapidly gave up on, though at one point he did appear to be trying to eat one.
He painted, in the end, a number of beginner's paintings: a line of flowers whose heads were little flames, and a bad, sketch-style painting of Farina with a large number of penis eyestalks (this one seemed far more celebrative, even reverent, of the master--as if these penises were a trophy prize)... He painted one canvas entirely black, and then as an afterthought (and it required a lot of paint, to cover that black with lighter hues) added a giant orange triangle, and an almost mysterious-looking pale orb beside it. And then, of course, Imp spent a very long time on the largest canvas he could find.
Upon this one he painted Master Vargas.
Except Vargas's hammerhead was distinctly malformed, twisted into a rather heart-like shape, bulbous and shining. A thick vein ran down his back, and his quills were notably absent--at least, in this iteration. Undoubtedly, there'd be more. His many toes, too, were bulbous--and notably each also bore a vein and was, rather obviously, clawless.
Imp laughed at this one, quietly, and cursed at the canvas now and then.
The entire time he worked, he spent time pausing to eat, or to wander off to loop the bizarre vinyl; by the end he was cheerfully singing along, having seemingly forgotten Aethril's presence, wholly in his element.
It was a whole new world, for Imp--and he was gonna paint it all.
When at last he'd finished, waning half the day away, he glanced to Aethril questioningly.
As if in afterthought, head tilted, he leaned forward and made a tiny orange ring at the bottom--a signature, apparently, and one he went around adding to the bottom of all the rest.
He certainly had experience creating their general shape, anyway.
@Aethril