The overhead lights at Urban Easel flicker on butter yellow, which is a pain point for every artist that rents there. Yasiel arrives no later than six in the morning, because he can’t stand the sculptor that comes very weekend. Handsome guy in his late twenties, with scuffed up oversized headphones that pour music out of them. Jazz, Yasiel thinks. Something pretentious. And he can’t concentrate on oil painting with tinny trump sounds and the constant tap, tap, tap of the other artists foot on Urban Easel’s concrete flooring.
The studio has the baked in smell of art; something acrid, something smoky, something oily, slick and chalky. Bay windows, fifth story high overlooking traffic that makes everyone look like ants. It sits above a law firm where a cute paralegal has offered Yasiel coffee more than once.
He sips that coffee right then and there, standing in front of a blank white canvas that’s as tall as he is. Freshly slapped with gesso and blank with possibility. No fucking jazz music.
Yasiel’s the only one there, watery gray New England light flickering in through those wall to wall windows. Easel’s best feature and what made it a paycheck more expensive than other studio’s he’s rented from. Cuts down on the hideous sepia lighting above him.
This is Yasiel’s six canvas. The other five are stacked carefully, bundled with rope and black masking tape on the side with his name in a white paint pen. His stylish, scratchy scrawl (phone number on the paralegals hand, twenty minutes ago, in that same sharp handwriting).
The artist uncaps water bottle. Stares at his paintings, finished and tucked aside. He takes a sip of water.
Urban Easel is always cold because of the concrete, sucking the warmth from the rattling heaters. He thinks that it was never meant to be a studio, but became some rich white woman’s pet project; she wears Birkenstocks, loves hummingbird motifs and just really wanted to invest in creatives. Never enough heat in the place, which makes painting hard, when he needs a small detail, a delicate hand and his fingertips are frozen.
When the sculptor with bad taste fires up the kiln (shoved far off in the corner and away from his oils), it heats up considerably.
But it’s six am and Yasiel is alone.
His steps echo as he approaches the painting, cool water in his mouth, swished back and forth, back and forth. He pushes back strands of very unruly, raven colored hair. Looks to a mug—made here in the studio no less—that is overflowing with hair ties. The sculptor and his beaten up headphones that leak music; you’re always fucking with your hair, man—just take these!
Yasiel sets aside the free coffee from the cute paralegal. He ties his hair up into a messy ponytail. He puts a paintbrush to his mouth, taps the end against his tooth; tap, tap, tap and smiles.
