The Artist Dylan Alexandra Folsom

I walked up to the half-open garage and peered uncertainly into the cluttered space. At this point, I was alone in London, navigating purely by gut and intuition. My voice shook as I rasped out an indication of my presence. As I waited for an answer, I noticed some paint splattered carelessly to my left and tangled up barbed wire to my right. I swallowed nervously and ducked my head beneath the doors. Gasoline and turpentine overwhelmed the room as I fought a growing discomfort settling at the pit of my stomach. Before now, this idea had seemed adventurous, creative even. But as I stood alone in a stranger’s garage my only weapon a camera, I reconsidered my expedition.

My eyes circled the room cautiously. I jerked back defensively as another voice aside from my own doubts interrupted the silence. A man stood before me. Tiny shreds of paper and paint residue clung to his beard as he spoke. He extended his arm and I flinched, then quickly recovered to hide my embarrassment as I shook his hand. His grip was confident, but his smile sincere. He examined me uneasily before I remembered I was really the stranger here. I chuckled nervously and cleared my throat before explaining that I needed help with a photography project. I wanted...