![]() It was his idea to work together, to build the studio together, to give it life together. We run the studio together, he’s a few years older. Minghao is a painter as well, his style rigid and very colorful, meanwhile mine is warm and homey. Ever since Vernon introduced me to him, we’ve been working together. Minghao and I clicked instantly, it was love at first sight, in a very platonic way. I’m a perfectionist, I rarely let loose and I’m obsessed with order. Only wanting the best, always striving to be the best. He knew what he wanted, always, and wasn’t afraid to demand it. ![]() Everything about him was delicate, his taste was even finer than mine and he was ruthless. Minghao was mesmerizing, his mere presence could capture your whole attention. Through him, I met Xu Minghao, my second-in-hand. He had a fine eye for art, very sophisticated taste and unique views. Somewhere along the way, in Switzerland to be exact I was actually taking a break is where I met my manager. I didn’t go to college, like many of my peers, I downed myself into the world of art and went around Europe, researching and learning as much as I could about the painters. Ever since then things changed, but they really only changed after I finished high school. But it happened, in my sophomore year, I painted a little piece for a contest and I won, gaining a lot of attention. I never imagined that one day I would become a well-known painter, it just seemed surreal. I have been painting ever since middle school, a small and innocent passion became the job that allows me to put bread on my table every day. The new exposition was going well and I was proud that my works gained so much attention in so little time. The studio has been buzzing with people the whole week. They had staggered home with it between them, setting it up triumphantly in the living room as they had slow-danced quietly together, heads pressed close as they rotated to the crackly lyrics of Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love. Their record player sat stacked on a record-filled milk crate in the corner, the prized thrifting possession from an entire day spent in the Chelsea Flea market. Her bare feet were hooked comfortably in the rungs of the chair, messy golden bun barely contained by the hairelastic that strained to hold the wild mane. Clarke sat on a rickety wooden stool in front of this explosion of colours, clad only in a paint-splattered white tee-shift that skimmed the tops of her thighs. A large canvas was propped onto it- a swirling scene of crystalline blues, bright yellows, and emerald greens were splashed across the taunt surface. A paint flecked hand reached out unseeingly for the glass of ruby-red wine sat on a small wooden table, just within arm’s reach of a large, clearly well loved easel.
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