02.

„Josie? Mrs. Williams just called in. Fiona is sick.“
„Oh, thanx for the info, Jill. If anything else should happen, we’re in the modern arts department and later in the atelier.“

A flock of 11 kids follow the tall, dark haired woman through the different halls of the museum, finally ending in front of a beautiful oil painting by Marc Chagall. Each pupil sits down on a pillow that everyone had been taking with them. The semicircle of 10-12 year olds impatiently waits for the teacher addressing them again.

„As usual: Tell me what you see first. Only then make a guess what the image might be about.“
Masses of little fingers raise up into the air and ‚flying people’, ‚strange, green goats’, ‚rooster’, ‚flowers’ and other details mingle to a vivid murmur.

Josephine loves this part of her life. Museum education might appear as something quite boring to the outsider, yet there’s so much to discover in the world of arts – may it be recent or ancient. One could learn so much from the ‚past’. Certain ideas still seem to be as fresh as if they just have been born from a creative brain. Children never seem to find anything uninteresting. That might more be a certain, ‚grown up’ attitude. Developing an aesthetic view and feeling – that’s something she tries to achieve and looking into the glowing and enthusiastic faces she knows she must be doing something right.

After arriving the the museum’s own atelier two college students are already waiting to help the excited kids into old shirts, covering their fashy clothes from the worst. Josie already is at the acrylic paint, opening the caps and displaying little trays with plastic cups.

„Today we want to paint with our bare fingers. No brushes at all.“ Some squeals and squeaks interrupt her speech. „Anybody knows why?“
„Because it’s fun?“
She has to smile broadly. „Of course, that too. No, I’m thinking of something else.“
„Somebody stole the brushes, or you forgot to bring them?“
„Thank you very much! I don’t take them home with me and no, there they are.“ She points towards a board where some huge ceramic pots are filled with different sizes of the mentioned objects.
„We painted with finger colours in pre-school. Umh, I’m in the fourth grade now – I want my brush!“
A blond, quite handsome girl complains with an offended expression. Josephine still tries to put he names to the right faces. She didn’t have the time so far to properly check her list. It’s the first lesson of a new course, taking place every Friday afternoon. She just recalls that an elderly woman, maybe in her 60ties, greying hair, brought her.

„Well, it’s not a big secret. Using your fingers you can feel the texture of the paint and the canvas. You are closer to the picture you create. Do you get what I mean?“
Murmur in the little group. Again it’s the blond, long haired girl raising her index.
„Daddy always says ideas go straight from your brain into your finger. He’s got lots of ideas and is busy all the time.“
„Wonderful! I couldn’t have said it in a better way,...errr...sorry, what’s your name?“
„Stella-Rose.“ She grins. „Nobody really calls me that way – only when I was a bad girl. You can call me Rosie.“
Holy heavens!
Trying not to appear hasty she reaches for the class list and checks it quickly. Stella-Rose Gahan.
Quickly blocking out any further thoughts she continues with her lecture about how to use the colours. Being busy going from easel to easel to help or advise time flies and the timer she set chimes nerve wreckingly into the all over chat and giggles.

A few parents seem to pile up already in the corridor, watching their kids through the huge glass pane that allows insights concerning work in the atelier. When Josie saw the place for the first time it immediately reminded her of an aquarium. She already started calling it so disrespectfully. „I need to work in the aquarium today.“

„Daddy, Daddy!“ Rosie seems to have detected her father waiting outside. Josephine follows her view and then she feels like the ground opening up under her feet. Those eyes! The amazing, olive, melancholic eyes!
Christ, let me be invisible!

Not alone that it is the celebrity father of one of her pupils. That on it’s own would have been extraordinary. No, she already met him before – in sort of disguise, but she immediately recalls him seeing through her. As if that’s not enough that young girls drags him with her into the atelier.

„Look, Daddy! That’s my picture!“
He checks his watch.
„Precious, I’m a bit in a hurry. Just a quick look, OK?“
When she points towards Josie the woman nearly dies but the brunette man just shakes her hand kinda absentmindedly, asking if his daughter was behaving well. There’s no sign of recognition in his beautiful irises. She’s relieved and returns the casual smile. A moment later father and daughter scurry along the corridor.
He’s wearing his black leather jacket again. What a handsome man still! Oh my gosh, you tied him up in a sex club!

***
Back at home she sighs, realizing she still doesn’t feel ‚at home’. Tripping on a pizza carton it finally dawns her she should take some action. Scooting into the tiny pantry kitchen she rips a black, plastic bin liner from a pack and returns to her living room horror show.

Two hours later she pulls the plug and the vacuum cleaner sound dies down. Wiping some sweat from her brows she deeply breathes in and enjoys the now clean, neat atmosphere. Dedusting the last rack of CDs her eyes keep sticking to a Depeche Mode album. Fuck! She successfully banned any thoughts while being busy. He didn’t recognize me! Good and bad at the same time. She’s still puzzled. Why do your stunning eyes haunt me now? Why do I suddenly feel all that pain?
Unnerved Josie tosses the cleaning utensils back into bucket that usually hides in the bathroom. Six completely stuffed rubbish bags! She still can’t believe it!

Though it’s after 9 pm she sits down and boots up her Mac. Starting the image editing software she tries to adjust her tired eyes to the colourful flickering on the monitor. Going through the image banks of her clients she starts to feel slightly sick. This is going to be another, long, sleepless night.

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