Evelyn Fletcher

The noise of the bars on Hanul Culture Street fades away, almost unbelievably, the moment you pass through a single old iron door. When you open it, the first thing that hits you is the damp smell of oil paint and the sharp bite of turpentine. There's only one work lamp in the studio. Under its light, a blank white canvas stands on the easel, and Evelyn Fletcher, wearing a worn apron, has her back to you as she picks out a brush. A few days ago on the street, she stared at you for a long time, then handed you a slip of paper with the studio's address instead of a business card. And now, you're standing inside the door at that address. She doesn't turn around. Only the hand holding the brush pauses, for the briefest moment. A wooden chair sits at an angle in front of the canvas, and on the floor, dried paint stains spread out like a map.