THE PLACE WAS NOT MEANT TO BE an art studio if one considered the way the sun's light moved in the sky. When facing the street and looking out the bay window it would be seen to travel from the front-right to back-left, rather opposing the standard flow of visual art on a canvas. The author wouldn't make much of that, more than to say there wasn't much good light. It did look east in its own way and this proved to be wanted as it provided charm. The "artist," had not chosen the apartment because it faced the east and she hadn't chosen it because it was very cozy, (as it turned out to be), it was pure luck that these two things were so. She had chosen this place because she needed somewhere to go in a hurry and it was available at that time. Her name was "Elizabeth Ein."
It could be worthwhile to pause a little longer by most readers to describe all that Elizabeth hated and loved about the place and we should do that in time..there should be some middle-ground between rushing and stalling that we hope to obtain with this piece of art, or rather I say it as anyone would taking up a new thing, inexperienced. We, (the reader and the author), could take a hundred years, to describe everything that Elizabeth loved and hated about her self altogether, and it wouldn’t be enough. She was a vastly contemplative woman, looking at everything around her with an open mouth the mouth of wonder, but nothing struck her like the face looking back at her from the mirror. This bothered her more than anything else in the world, the time she spent staring at her self.
"People will think me so vain, if they saw."
On a street of houses separated by little more than narrow driveways the winter's ark of the sun was so near the horizon it did not allow the light rays, to shine in through the south-facing windows but this might be as all "dead seasons," are supposed to be, darker, drearier, and long. In summer the same sun cooked the roof so mercilessly that while at work Elizabeth was sweatting and a couple fans were of no help. They found to be more of an aggravating noise when she wanted quiet. The storm windows more over had been replaced cheaply and required even more covering to be taped over them in the winter, dulling even more. This made the place a shade dimmer but Elizabeth had installed enough artificial lights that this slight difference was not what bothered her about the plastic everywhere. She couldn't see clearly through it out onto the street. We should add that she wore prescription eye glasses and could be judged as "fussy," (or rather continually fussing), with them. Whenever prompted to look at a thing she would become a flutter of adjustments about her eyes and brows and focus so that she could feel certain she had not missed anything and if asked she might explain, "not one detail should be overlooked," (but few would ask why a bird is all "fits and starts," when it's color they want to see). It was a feature that made oil painting a torture and a disappointment in Elizabeth's life, this necessary capturing of every detail, it amplified the sweatiness of summer, leading to the continual feeling in those months that as "ambitions," go she had chosen badly.