You meet a man with soot stained hands, black up to the crook of the elbow. He holds a cigarette in hand, and an oversight of hardship in feature. The line between his top lid and the bottom of his eye runs a crease all the way to his ear. It is clear he’s smiled rather a lot in his lifetime.
“You worship The Craftsman, little thing from the North?”
He draws from his cigarette, and holds to the smoke. If it ever leaves his lips it’s transformed to clean air, like the tar in his lungs has made a meal of the stuff.
“Might you worship me instead? I’ve produced more paintings than any artist in the world. How have I done this, you wonder, perhaps?” He taps at his ashes. “I make paint, you see. Black paint, moreover, the blackest you’ll find... I’ve made every shade of black you can imagine.”
