The room becomes a painting. Your length of it leaves with you at the end of the night.
The address goes to place holders.
You don’t need to be able to paint. The evening assumes taste, not technique.
There is no teacher in the room and nothing to copy.
One length of cloth to yourself, hung with your number on it, no one else’s marks on it.
It comes down whole at the end and goes home that night, rolled under your arm.
The address goes to place holders.