As Ingrid sat on a wooden stool with a pillow underneath for comfort, she leaned forward, her dark wood desk providing a sturdy surface for her artistic endeavors. Her slender fingers delicately gripped a paintbrush, dipping it into the vibrant hues of the few tubes of paint scattered across the desk.
With focused concentration, Ingrid moved the brush across the paper, creating delicate strokes and intricate details that slowly brought her vision to life. Yet, as she leaned back in her chair to assess her work, a furrow creased her brow in frustration.
"It is too wet," she murmured to herself, her gaze lingering on the damp patches marring her creation. "These paints simply do not work well with paper."
At that moment, Christine approached from behind, her footsteps soft against the floor. Peering over Ingrid's shoulder, she studied the painting with a curious expression.
