“Well, one of them. My most important studio is here.”
I raise my eyebrow and follow him inside. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means this is my private studio.”
“Where’s the other one?”
He nods. “On the Upper East Side. It’s where all the pretentious people come in and view my paintings and, subsequently, try to buy them,” Ansel says with a grin. His opinion of his buyers might make him sound pretentious himself if he hadn’t already explained his reasoning at the dinner with Lily. As it is, it just makes me laugh as he leads us into the house.
It only takes me a moment of being inside to realize he’s sold this place short in its description. Not only is this his private studio, it’s also quite obviously his home.
And it’s gorgeous.
Modern fixtures and furniture with clean lines and a neutral color palette fill the space, but the exposed brick and paintings hung along the walls create just the right amount of vintage charm.
Busy taking it all in, I almost trip as Ansel guides me to the bottom of a set of steps. Two flights of stairs lead into a massive room that takes up two whole floors. The winter sun flows in through the windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling, and one lone, worn-out leather couch sits dead center.
The rest of the room is littered with blank canvases, painted canvases, and enough art supplies to last a lifetime.
It’s chaos. It’s order. And for some crazy reason, it’s exactly how I would have imagined it to be.
“This is…” I pause and let my gaze take in every corner, every canvas, every brush, and jar of paint. “Well, it’s kind of messy. Beautiful, but messy.”
His answering smile turns my insides to melted caramel.
“That might be the best compliment I’ve ever received.”
I snort at that. “Liar.”
“No, really,” he says as he walks across the large space and turns on the rest of the lights throughout the room. “It’s honest. And real. That kind of response is rare these days.”
“You don’t think people are honest with you?”
“Sometimes, they are. But a lot of times, they’re not.” He shrugs and leans down to pick up a blank canvas that rests against the wall. “Let’s put it this way—you’re the first person in a long time to admit to me that they don’t know anything about art.” His boots tap across the hardwood floor as he carries the canvas back toward the center of the room.
“Really?”
He sets the blank canvas on an easel and pulls up a small stool to sit in front of it, a smile lighting up his entire face. “Once you reach a certain level within the art world, people start catering to what they think you want or expect rather than being real. It’s hard to tell if people even really like what you create, or if they’re just going along with it because everyone else is.”
“That’s a bit self-deprecating.”
His grin doesn’t fade. “Most of us artists are self-deprecating fools, Indy.”
The ease of our conversation isn’t lost on me.
I feel like I’ve known him all my life, yet I’ve merely just met him.
It’s strange and would be overwhelming if Ansel gave me any time to explore the anxiety building beneath my skin. As it is, I barely have time to take a breath before he’s pulling me another step further outside my comfort zone.
“It’s your turn,” he says and points toward the empty canvas.
I scrunch up my nose. “My turn?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me the other night at dinner, and I feel it’s only fair if I put myself on the other side of things. You know, fully grasp what it feels like to be the subject.”
I look at the blank canvas and then at the leather couch and then back at him.
“That’s great and all, but who’s going to paint you? I can’t paint. Like, at all.”
A handsome smirk lifts up the corners of his mouth, and he waves off my words with a nonchalant hand. “Anyone can paint. You just pick up the brush and put it to the canvas.”
“You and I both know it’s not that easy.”
Ansel points toward the couch in front of the canvas. “Do you mind if I sit, or would you prefer me to stand?”
I silently wonder if I asked him to get naked, would he do it?
That might actually make doing this worth the embarrassment of the garbage I’ll no doubt create…
Oh. My. God. Don’t be such a pervert. I quickly squash that ridiculous thought and focus on my lack of skill.
“There is no way I’m painting you,” I declare. “I mean, I can hardly draw a stick person, much less create a portrait that would do you justice.”
“Who says it has to be a portrait?” he asks and sits down. He stretches his arms out along the back of the couch and makes himself comfortable. “Just because I’m the subject doesn’t mean my face has to be on that painting.”