“Good God, what have I gotten myself into,” the artist mumbled in a string of expletives under his breath before turning his attention back to the assumed patron who had stopped by his studio. “--So, as I was saying...you’re welcome to stay and join me for some tea if you would like, but I’m not open for public showings. I’m sorry about the confusion my recently fired assistant might have caused with that Craigslist ad. I’m trying to rent out the space upstairs and somehow everything has gotten mixed up,” he was saying as he meticulously wrapped some lithographs in protective packaging. He labored over relying on Fed Ex to ensure the priceless works’ safe arrival to their destination, a museum showing in Lisbon he’d reluctantly agreed to, but other than hand delivery. Letting go of his need to control every aspect of every step in the process was hard but really was his most viable option. “Anyway, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but maybe I can help you track down whatever it is you’re looking for?” he says, pausing for a beat, tired hues scanning the space for needed supplies. “Would you mind handing me that packing tape, there, on the shelf next to where you’re standing?”
