-The next day-
'T. ENGEL'S STUDIO: 24 South Thornside, Bohem Crossing.'
That day, August stayed at the museum until closing looking at T. Engel's artwork. Before he left, he copied the provided address next to the painting into his notebook. The following day, he headed there as soon as his responsibilities were completed.
What is an artist's studio? To provide it openly at the museum must mean it is not a private residence. Then again, August does live in the very house that uses the bottom floor for the family's funeral business. The man at the museum gave the impression that it is okay to appear uninvited. Ah, but surely, sending a letter first would have been more polite?
Despite his internal conflict, he takes himself to the address anyways. It is nearly five in the afternoon, but he can only hope artists do not abide by typical business hours. He was busy restocking his mother's chemicals all morning, then cleaning out the crematorium. He bathed for almost an hour before leaving, not wanting any ash of the deceased to be stuck on him. That would be difficult to explain to T. Engel, whoever he is.
The studio is located on a quiet street. The terraced housing all look the same, until it does not. 24 South Thornside is painted all black on the outside. The fences, the brick, the door! August swallows hard.
"Well, I suppose I'm the wrong person to be scared off by black…" He tells himself, looking down at another all-black outfit.
He knocks on the door. Except, his knocking was pathetically quiet. Not even the pigeons standing on the fence turned to look. He tries again, with just a little more effort. This time, he could feel it in his knuckles. That should be loud enough, but no one comes!
"Do I knock again? But then I might be disturbing them," he begins to think out loud, "maybe I should see if anyone is home…"
To the window on the left, he carefully peeps in, but the curtain blocks any view. He thinks he sees some light, so someone must be home. He then tries pressing his ear to the door. He focuses hard- those might be footsteps in the distance! Yes, coming down a stairwell! Quickly, he backs up to avoid another embarrassing tumble and fixes his coat. It is the same outfit as yesterday, and it is the same outfit as the rest of his wardrobe. Why try new things when the original is just fine?
Suddenly, the door opens, and a young woman sticks her head out.
"Who are you?" She is straight to the point, eyebrows raised with concern.
"Me? I'm Aug-gu-gust, pardon, August. I came to, uh, to meet-"
"Are you a man, August?" She asks with genuine confusion.
He looks down at himself. 'Is it not obvious?' He thinks to himself. Perhaps the shoulder-length wavy hair is rather feminine, and his mother always said he had small shoulders…
"Why, I thi-think so?" He fears a trick question but nods with hestiation.
She sighs, partially closing the door as she searches through a little guest book. She reads a page with today's date, and widens her eyes while reading a hand-written note.
"Usually, Mr. Engel prefers not to see men. Do not be offended- it is a personal preference. Today must be your lucky day, for he put a note in allowing it for this date only. Do come in, I will take you to meet him. And please leave your shoes at the door, if you can."
With her lead, he enters the scary black house, and a house it must be, for he walks up regular stairs and past a kitchen, even a bedroom. Through the hallways, paintings just like the one found in the museum line the walls. Some of the scenes he can barely make out. Unlike the current trends favouring realism, the art of Engel is far more abstract. It is confusing in all the right ways.
"I must say again, young gentleman, it is very rare for Mr. Engel to allow a man into the studio. Do not take it personal, it is just a firm rule that has always been in place since I began working for the young lord. Do you happen to know him?" She asks August.
August shakes his head.
"Strange! Well, he is rather rude to men, do not take it personally. I believe it is a defense mechanism from- never mind. I have shared too much. Just, beware," she says in good faith.
What must Mr. Engel be like to normally refuse male visitors? Perhaps Mr. Engel is actually a Ms. Engel! That would make sense, many women would rather not deal with the nonsense that comes with men. There are reasons why it is his mother who works with in the morgue and father who works directly with guests. Dead bodies do not make crude comments.
"You may sit here. He will welcome you in soon," she takes him to a single chair.
And so he sits, but the moment his bottom touches the cushion, the door across from him opens.
"I'd rather not make you wait. Please, come in." Says a voice behind the door, the fingers disappearing as they return into the room.
August gets up again to chase the voice, only now noticing how loud his footsteps sound against the old wooden floorboards. There is no entry rug to muffle his sound. He makes sure to straighten his jackets and sweep the lint off his pants before entering to what he thought would be an office, but instead, it's-
"My studio. Do you like it?"
Three glass walls overlook the city, the natural sun light flooding in. Buckets of paint, of water, of brushes are all over the ground. In the middle of the room if a canvas at least three meters wide and two tall, far larger than himself. A single, blue stroke is painted vertically across it, the mop-like brush dropped on the floor.
And there he is, the man from the museum.
His long black hair is now secured in a bun on top of his head, and a plain white blouse is left unbuttoned, revealing his paint-stained chest. His loose trousers are discoloured and stained too, and he wears no shoes.
The sight causes August to blush, quickly bowing to avoid further eye contact with the two perks on that naked chest.
"Apologies, I may put on a shirt if you prefer."
August shakes his head, "no, n-no. Your… p-p-place."
Still, he decides to button up his shirt. Following this, he pulls out two stools from against the wall and sets them up in the middle of the room.
"Come sit here," he points to the stool, "I owe you an apology for being deceiving yesterday, and for calling you a fool. I withheld my identity, mostly to avoid overwhelming you. I assume this is no better."
August shakes his head, "no r-reason, to ap-apologize, Mr. Engel."
He smiles, "well, I do so anyways. My name is Theo, there is no reason for any formality. You have already flattered me enough after yesterday. I was proud of that painting, but you made me truly feel pride in my craft. It was an honour seeing your reaction."
August blinks with wide eyes.
"What's your name?"
"August," we whispers, only in a quiet voice or when distracted can he control his words.
"Would you like to watch me paint, August?"
He rapidly nods.
Theo grabs three buckets of paint and picks up the massive paint brush laid messily on the ground. First, he swishes it in water. The bristles saturate themselves and release from any clumps. Then, he dips it into the navy-blue paint bucket, letting the excess dip back in. He moves a step back. Then, with two hands, he picks it up over his shoulders, back muscles contracting through his thin linen blouse and with a single swing at his waist, slashes the canvas with another long, bold stroke of pigment. He does this a few more times, alternating between the different paints in a fluid motion. The white canvas turns into a slurry of navy, grey and forest green, like a galaxy of earthy tones.
"I paint my canvases with a mix of dark shades to prepare for the later layers. It is my base layer. It makes the canvas more flexible and helps me build contrast later. Do you paint?"
August shakes his head.
"Have you tried?"
He shakes his head again.
Theo lets go of the paint brush, dropping it on the floor. Some of the paint splashes it onto the canvas and the onto his trousers. August's eyes widen with concern, but he stays seating with his legs neatly crossed, hands on his thighs. The painter walks over, until he is right over him.
"May I see your hands?"
Anxiety sends through August's whole body. He quickly checks his nails, just in case there is bodily residue still left, and prays the constant use of alcohol disinfectant has not entirely annihilated any warmth or softness still found on his body.
He finally nods. He holds them out.
Carefully, Theo judges the length of his fingers, the flexibility in his palms, the way his veins stay pronounced over his thin, tan skin.
"Good hands, steady too. You often work with small instruments, I presume. I would love to see your art."
August quickly moves his hands back and hangs his head, eyes shaking with fear. Theo is quick to notice.
"I'm sorry- are you okay?"
"I ju-just, I stutter, and," August sighs, his words slipping out his mouth with an unbearable lack of control.
Theo smiles, "I don't mind. You can write if you prefer, or you can look at something else when you talk, if either of those help. Not that I understand your personal situation, but for me, I struggle to make eye contact, so people often think I am shallow. What I mean to say is that I will not judge you for your stutter."
August turns to the painting and whispers, "thank you."
"But now, August, I have a question that you are allowed to not answer. Still, the curiosity is tormenting me. If I may know, please tell me: what do you want from me?"