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Mustang69
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Mustang69
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12
In the Studio
With a slight groan, the painter slowly eased himself into the old rocking chair, his sinewy hands always trailing along the worn armrests in search of supportive hold. The only seat in the studio allowed his tired bones to recover a bit from the toil of a day spent hunched over the easel. As he aged, standing for long periods became increasingly difficult. And yet, the hours had slipped by without him being consciously aware of it.
It had been a good day; after a long time, he finally felt he had come a bit closer to the crucial point in the painting that was so important to him. A complete correspondence would never occur, he knew that. Every approach was a victory.
Slowly, he let his gaze wander around the room. He was amazed anew each time at how the light throughout the day changed the atmosphere in the space. For working, he preferred the early morning sun, powerful and clear, imposing a solid structure on his thoughts.
When he unlocked the door to the studio early in the morning, the room was still cold. The fresh air captured the clear, balsamic aroma of the fruit in the bowl and finely blended it with the brittle accents of the wilted flowers and leaves that were arranged as a model for the still life on the old wooden chest. The smell of the previous day still lingered in the room with a certain sharpness; solvents and paints always hit him most intensely upon entering. Later, the sun would have warmed the room, and the stained wood of the old chest, the beams and struts in the ceiling, and the worn floor would overshadow the perception of turpentine and resins. Together with the ever-present moisture in the walls, a slightly musty undertone would emerge, which might seem slightly off-putting to some guests, but to him, it represented a peculiar sense of security.
He loved this place. As far back as he could remember, he had spent his life in this seclusion, always striving to get a little closer to the decisive brushstroke. The painter looked up. The sun had now bathed the studio in golden light, and the day would soon draw to a close. It was time to rejoin the world. Slowly, he walked to the door, took one last look back, and stepped outside.
It had been a good day; after a long time, he finally felt he had come a bit closer to the crucial point in the painting that was so important to him. A complete correspondence would never occur, he knew that. Every approach was a victory.
Slowly, he let his gaze wander around the room. He was amazed anew each time at how the light throughout the day changed the atmosphere in the space. For working, he preferred the early morning sun, powerful and clear, imposing a solid structure on his thoughts.
When he unlocked the door to the studio early in the morning, the room was still cold. The fresh air captured the clear, balsamic aroma of the fruit in the bowl and finely blended it with the brittle accents of the wilted flowers and leaves that were arranged as a model for the still life on the old wooden chest. The smell of the previous day still lingered in the room with a certain sharpness; solvents and paints always hit him most intensely upon entering. Later, the sun would have warmed the room, and the stained wood of the old chest, the beams and struts in the ceiling, and the worn floor would overshadow the perception of turpentine and resins. Together with the ever-present moisture in the walls, a slightly musty undertone would emerge, which might seem slightly off-putting to some guests, but to him, it represented a peculiar sense of security.
He loved this place. As far back as he could remember, he had spent his life in this seclusion, always striving to get a little closer to the decisive brushstroke. The painter looked up. The sun had now bathed the studio in golden light, and the day would soon draw to a close. It was time to rejoin the world. Slowly, he walked to the door, took one last look back, and stepped outside.
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