ｅｘｐｒｅｓｓｉｏｎｉｓｍ
Martin worked at the Artist's Struggle often, but he had a private studio of his own. The only real drawback to his own studio was that another person had a key and could waltz in whenever he felt the need to try and wrap Martin around his finger again. Cohen was an eccentric narcissist that got on Martin's last nerve more often than not, but he was his backer. Putting Cohen on his back as payment wasn't too terrible a price.
He was in a mood. He missed the surface simply because marble wasn't next to impossible to get topside. He only had one block in his studio and he'd been saving it and working with plaster, clay, and other manipulable materials instead of something he could chip away at.
The knock at the door pulled him out of his scowling, resentful reverie, the body of clay on the table before him unfinished. It resembled strong, taught muscles, an arched back slightly twisted as though the man hiding within the clay were reaching back for something... Martin grabbed a wet rag and cleaned the clay from his hands. He tossed it over his shoulder and it landed with a plop on the edge of the table.
He didn't bother grabbing a shirt to throw on, since he figured it was that crazy grape stopping by-- he was sick of Cohen ripping off buttons and not buying new shirts. Unceremoniously, he opened the door, only for a look of surprise to fall over his features.
"Oh. Hector... I wasn't expecting you."