where the artists live

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They live upstairs. It's not quite an attic, but it verges on being one. An enormous room full of arty resources and paint spattered school chairs in a uniform royal blue. The walls are full of posters advertising exhibitions at both world-renowned art galleries and tiny little local galleries, for local artists. I note that there are a variety of faces on these posters. There's a young modern woman pouting, an elderly Indian man gazing intensely, another young lady - from less contemporary times - with very pink cheeks and a severely parted hairstyle, and a young man looking rather pop art-ish. The one thing they do have in common is their unsmiling faces. Other posters show themes of decay, destruction, light. The posters find themselves complemented by a few pieces of student artwork. Abstract, beautiful and bright. There is a not-quite silence, betrayed by the gentle hum of hair driers drying paint, the quiet thwack thwack thwack of rollers being used in printmaking, paper rustling and low voices murmuring. An artistic student gives me an idea as he spatters watercolours onto paper in an artistically haphazard way. Google backs this idea up with wonderfully divine and gorgeous images. I am excited for something I know will probably never happen, although for financial reasons, lack of Oompf, or just plain cowardice, who can say? My time here is nearly done. In a short while my travels will take me down flights of stairs, along rabbit warren corridors, past the dinner place and into an English lesson. Here I will be besieged by low-ability students craving my awesomeness. Because I am, awesome. Allegedly.