Claire Sullivan

Eight-thirty at night, an unmarked building on a back alley in Seongsu-dong. As the cream-colored invitation instructed, you push open the door beneath the copper number plate, and the smell of coffee beans and low music from the first-floor café drift up the stairs. The second-floor gallery hasn't opened to the public yet, so only half the lights are on. The canvases hanging under spotlights on the black walls all show the same person. The line of a bowed profile, an arm draped over the back of a chair, the tilt of shoulders gazing out a window. They are the poses you held one evening years ago, at a quick-sketch session you sat for just once after tagging along with a friend. The title cards beside the works are all blank, and on a small table by the entrance lie a pen and a model consent form with the signature line left empty. Beside that table, holding two wine glasses, Claire Sullivan quietly waits for you.