nerves.
I found the elevator in the entranceway just beyond the doors. I rode up to the fifth floor and emerged in a narrow hallway with pleasantly dim lighting. Two doors stood on either side of the hall. They were made of dark polished wood and looked positively medieval. The one on the right was Dominic’s studio.
I knocked loudly. The pounding of my heart seemed louder than the sound of my knuckles on the door.
It opened and Dominic’s face emerged into the hall.
“You came,” he said, smiling. He wore paint spattered blue jeans and a blue plaid button shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his thick forearms.
“You sound surprised.”
He smiled. “Not surprised. Pleased. Come in.”
He pulled the door open all the way and stood to the side, gesturing me in with his hand. I stepped in to the enormous studio and he locked the door behind us.
The place looked like one massive room and must have taken up half the top floor of the building. Most of the cavernous space was blanketed in shadow. Exposed steel beams stretched from the floor to the ceiling at various intervals around the room. Strings of Christmas lights spiraled up the beams, looking like fireflies floating in twilight.
The walls were raw, red brick where I could see them, but they were mostly hidden behind canvases and piles of art supplies I couldn’t identify in the gloom. The floor consisted of slats of wood so dark they were almost black.
The scent of paint and incense lingered in the air. It smelled vibrant and alive. This was a place where creation happened. A place of discovery and passion.
“This is a hell of a studio,” I said.
“Thanks. I like it.”
“How can you afford something so big? It must cost a fortune.”
He smiled a little half-smile. “I manage.”
He flipped a switch on the wall and lit up a space off to the right that looked like a kitchenette. A bottle of wine sat on the counter top next to two glasses.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
I waved my hand dismissively in front of me. “No, I better not.”
“Come on. I can tell that you’re all wound up. It’ll help you relax.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m kind of a lightweight when it comes to drinking.”
“It’s really good wine. Give it a try.” He held up the bottle invitingly.
“Okay, sure,” I said. “But just the one glass.”
“Absolutely.”
He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to me. The liquid was a deep burgundy in the soft light.
I took a sip. It was heavy and rich. An instant warmth spread through me. I reminded myself to only have one glass so I could keep my wits about me. I really wasn’t much of a drinker. At twenty years old, I couldn’t even buy liquor. A couple of glasses of wine was more than enough to knock me on my ass.
We stood there in comfortable silence while I looked around the studio. The rest of the space was broken up into smaller segments by strategically placed tables and screens.
One corner had a dark sheet hung up in it surrounded by standing lights. A camera on a tripod pointed at the sheet. I gestured at it.
“So you’re a photographer, too?” I asked.
He nodded and smiled. “Yes, I like to dabble in lots of different aspects of art. Drawing, painting, photography. Even a little pottery when I feel like getting my hands dirty.”
“Wow, a real renaissance man, huh?”
He shrugged. “I’m not exactly Da Vinci or anything. I like to think I’ve made a lot of beautiful things in this studio, but I’ve made a lot of crap, too.”
He laughed and I found myself smiling.
“I’m sure you’re just being modest. Your sketch was amazing.”
“I appreciate that, but trust me. I have boxes and boxes of embarrassing attempts. I should burn them, but every once in a while, I like to look at them to remind me of how far I’ve come. It’s
I found the elevator in the entranceway just beyond the doors. I rode up to the fifth floor and emerged in a narrow hallway with pleasantly dim lighting. Two doors stood on either side of the hall. They were made of dark polished wood and looked positively medieval. The one on the right was Dominic’s studio.
I knocked loudly. The pounding of my heart seemed louder than the sound of my knuckles on the door.
It opened and Dominic’s face emerged into the hall.
“You came,” he said, smiling. He wore paint spattered blue jeans and a blue plaid button shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his thick forearms.
“You sound surprised.”
He smiled. “Not surprised. Pleased. Come in.”
He pulled the door open all the way and stood to the side, gesturing me in with his hand. I stepped in to the enormous studio and he locked the door behind us.
The place looked like one massive room and must have taken up half the top floor of the building. Most of the cavernous space was blanketed in shadow. Exposed steel beams stretched from the floor to the ceiling at various intervals around the room. Strings of Christmas lights spiraled up the beams, looking like fireflies floating in twilight.
The walls were raw, red brick where I could see them, but they were mostly hidden behind canvases and piles of art supplies I couldn’t identify in the gloom. The floor consisted of slats of wood so dark they were almost black.
The scent of paint and incense lingered in the air. It smelled vibrant and alive. This was a place where creation happened. A place of discovery and passion.
“This is a hell of a studio,” I said.
“Thanks. I like it.”
“How can you afford something so big? It must cost a fortune.”
He smiled a little half-smile. “I manage.”
He flipped a switch on the wall and lit up a space off to the right that looked like a kitchenette. A bottle of wine sat on the counter top next to two glasses.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
I waved my hand dismissively in front of me. “No, I better not.”
“Come on. I can tell that you’re all wound up. It’ll help you relax.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m kind of a lightweight when it comes to drinking.”
“It’s really good wine. Give it a try.” He held up the bottle invitingly.
“Okay, sure,” I said. “But just the one glass.”
“Absolutely.”
He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to me. The liquid was a deep burgundy in the soft light.
I took a sip. It was heavy and rich. An instant warmth spread through me. I reminded myself to only have one glass so I could keep my wits about me. I really wasn’t much of a drinker. At twenty years old, I couldn’t even buy liquor. A couple of glasses of wine was more than enough to knock me on my ass.
We stood there in comfortable silence while I looked around the studio. The rest of the space was broken up into smaller segments by strategically placed tables and screens.
One corner had a dark sheet hung up in it surrounded by standing lights. A camera on a tripod pointed at the sheet. I gestured at it.
“So you’re a photographer, too?” I asked.
He nodded and smiled. “Yes, I like to dabble in lots of different aspects of art. Drawing, painting, photography. Even a little pottery when I feel like getting my hands dirty.”
“Wow, a real renaissance man, huh?”
He shrugged. “I’m not exactly Da Vinci or anything. I like to think I’ve made a lot of beautiful things in this studio, but I’ve made a lot of crap, too.”
He laughed and I found myself smiling.
“I’m sure you’re just being modest. Your sketch was amazing.”
“I appreciate that, but trust me. I have boxes and boxes of embarrassing attempts. I should burn them, but every once in a while, I like to look at them to remind me of how far I’ve come. It’s
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