On the door, the sign said The Manqué Studio. It was a very narrow building, wedged between a dry cleaner and the Starbucks where I stopped to get my daily morning coffee. I had never seen anyone enter or exit although there seemed to always be activity behind the windows. There was a sense of mystery enhanced by the opaque windows, and curtained over door panels. When I passed, I could hear sounds coming from inside.
Sometimes as I sipped my coffee, I would stare at the door. I would imagine a struggling artist working long and strange hours, creating beautiful pictures, but living a lonely life. I pictured the artist as a sad man, isolated with only his paintings to keep him company. Possibly his heart had been broken, or he was so sensitive that he could not stand to deal with the pain of the world. He kept to himself, painting his only way of communicating to the outside world, the only way he could share the pain that he felt.
Some days I could actually picture him, or what I thought he looked like. He was a tall, thin and his shoulders were slightly rounded. His hair was dark matching his dark eyes that could bore a hole into your soul. The hair fell loosely down around his collar, and always looked as if he had been running his fingers through it. He had long, thin hands that would move over his canvas sometimes in a flowing manner, and sometimes in very determined short strokes. As I sipped my coffee, I could feel him staring at his canvas.
I let my imagination get the better of me, but I had wonderful times in the mornings picturing him. I knew only I could save him from himself. A good cup of java and a dose of drama could entertain me for hours. It was always a wonderful way to start the day, as the blushing heroine who saves my sad lonely artist. There were always touching moments when he looked deeply into my eyes, held my hands, and softly spoke to me. And of course, we then paint happily off together into the sunset. Since these are my fantasies, I always have happy endings.
This morning as I passed, I noticed the door was open about ten inches. I slowed, and started to move on past, but curiosity got the best of me. As I looked in, I think I actually expected to see my artist painting his canvas, turning toward me, possibly startled by my light knock on the open door. What I found was an empty room except for one lonely table next to the fireplace. On the table, there were some paint brushes, an artist palette and some colors of paint. It looked as if someone had been busily painting, but there was no painter and no picture. The room smelt of a strong mixture of paint and turpentine. There was something sad about the empty room, as if it had been deserted.
Although knowing that I shouldn’t, I walked into the room to get a closer look. I couldn’t imagine this room being inspirational for creativity. It seemed dark and depressing, with no natural light coming through the windows. I wondered at the lack of paintings or any decorations on the walls. It certainly did not look like the room of my fantasy artist. I had always imagined beautiful but haunting pictures leaning haphazardly against the walls, with one very large canvas on the wall. This canvas was the story of my artist. Although you could see his inner beauty, the painting expressed his loss and loneliness. There would be an easel in the middle of the room, and my artist would be painting my picture having watched me just as I had watched his studio.
Except for what was on the table, the room was empty. I called out to see if someone might be in another room, but got no response. I wondered who had been working here and who had left the palette and paints. Would he be coming back? I called out again, a little louder, but after hearing no response, I thought better of being in there at all. I slipped out the door, pushing it a little further shut.
I went in to get my coffee and took up a seat where I could watch the door. It seemed like I had to watch over it and keep it safe. Safe from what or for who was completely unimportant at the moment, I just knew it was necessary for me to watch over the studio. While I sat there watching, nothing occurred and no one entered the building. I realized that once again, I was letting my fantasy life get the best of me. It was time for me to head off and start my day.
As I turned to leave, I felt the draw of the studio one more time. Since I had only walked in the one room, I decided to take another look inside, this time planning to walk through the whole place. What if someone was hurt, and couldn’t answer when I called out? What if there had been an intruder? I realized that walking in there alone, somewhere I didn’t belong, to find someone or something that I had no reason to think existed, did not make a lot of sense. Yet, I had watched that door so many times, that I couldn’t just turn my back on it. I couldn’t leave without trying to get a few answers.
As I walked toward the building, I thought about the artist that had entered my dream world. I no longer pictured him at the easel, or the haunting pictures against the walls. Having entered the empty room, I could not imagine finding anyone in that studio that I would run off with into the sunset. Yet, I was not done with the building. I needed to know what the rest of the building looked like. I had to see for myself if there was something in one of the other rooms that would help to explain the building, its occupant and its actual use.
Getting to the door, I knocked harder on the door, calling out loudly to anyone that might be inside. Still getting no response, I entered and began walking through the rooms. As I went from room to room, I found no one lying on the floor, no paintings in the building, no furnishings and no indication of what the building had actually been used for. The emptiness echoed through the building. There was nothing left that explained how the building had occupied or how it now stood empty.
I got to the top floor, the last room, and began to make my way back. I realized that this building was now vacant. If there ever was a lonely, talented artist, he had moved on and left me behind. It was hard to believe this empty building had ever been an artist’s studio. I wondered, as I often did, who was the person that worked inside The Manqué Studio. I sighed, realized that it was time to bury this fantasy. Coming to the ground floor, I walked over to the table and picked up the artist palette. It was splattered with so much paint that I could only wonder what pictures and how many had been created. Glancing around one more time, I took the palette as a memory of my times lost in thought about this studio. As I stepped out of the building and glanced back, there was a real sense of loss. Maybe it was time for me to find another place for that morning cup of coffee, find a hobby to fill my time rather than fantasize about what might be.
Moving down the street, I paused and looked back at the building. At just that time, a man stopped in front of the door, looked over at me, and then turned toward the door. He knocked and slowly went into the building. I watched him look around the studio until he was out of sight. It seemed very mysterious to me, the way he glanced around, the way he slowly walked into the building.
Deciding that I needed to think about this, I proceeded back into Starbucks for another cup of coffee. I thought about this new stranger and how he fit into The Manqué Studio. He had the movements of a poet. I could see him sitting in front of the fireplace for hours, writing and creating beautiful but sad prose. It seemed in that brief moment of seeing each other, our souls had touched. Looking at the artist palette, I thought about my tortured poet, and how I might be his only savior. Putting the artist palette down, I slowly sipped my coffee knowing that I had once again established a connection to the Manqué Studio.
