Shadow, at the dusk window

Here is the order of things.

First a sentence. One true line about the one you're thinking of. Not a description. True. He sleeps by the door. The tail that starts before the key turns. The way she watches rain like it owes her something.

Photos come later, right before the finished piece. A face is a lot to hand a stranger at the door. A sentence is smaller, and often truer.

I sketch from the sentence first. Free. You see it before you owe anything. If it's them, we keep going: the finished piece, two days, $25. If it isn't, it stays a sketch and we part warm.

The first sketch is free because the first sentence is the hard part. After that, we are just keeping the light on.

Write me: [email protected]

He's not doing anything. He's doing the whole thing: staying.

I paint the ones who wait. The grey muzzle at the glass. The sigh that fogs it. The tail that knew your car before the door opened.

This one is my sample. If you've ever loved a dog who waited, you already know him.

Yours comes from one true line about them. The first sketch is free.

The window from the inside. The candle is for whoever is late. The sill is for whoever waits.

I paint these rooms for people who miss someone: the companion at the glass, the light kept on, the quiet hour.

Write me one true line about yours. The first sketch is free.