The sienna and sand spots on his hands were not paint. They were years in the sun of life, speckling him from fingertip to shoulder, across cheeks and in the wrinkles around smart, sharp cobalt eyes. He wandered the streets with his dungaree pack and his straw hat. Loose clothes were well kept to the distant eye, but a sharper view would see that specks of paint not quiet scrubbed clean. He stood out some among the usual visitors to that part of town, but he had heard of the gallery and that spoke to him. It sang to his soul like a siren. A grip to the door and pushing his way inside, his free hand rubbed at a sharp trimmed beard of steel gray that complemented the tufts of silver white that curled out from beneath his straw fedora.

Juliane turned towards the door, a sketch of circles, squares and rectangles jumbled all together on individual cards. Each one represented a piece of art she felt would look good in display. Leaving the task of sorting out the placement aside a moment, she gave the visitor a broad smile. "Welcome ta Th' Hope Creative. If ya'd like ta leave yer satchel behind th' counter while ya browse, feel free, yeah?"

"Good day to you, miss." His hand crept up to the strap of the pack, obviously reluctant to let it go. However, he also did not want to cause trouble, so he stood there a moment in that one spot, looking around and considering. He shifted on his feet, weight from one side to another, and then swept off his cap and scratched at the thick thatch of white hair. "Nice place, miss."

"Why thank ya. I'm a might proud of it, but since it's mine I'm figurin' I'm biased a bit." Juliane smiled again, and placed her hands against the wooden plane of the surface, leaning casually. "Yer more'n welcome ta spend as much time as ya'd like looking at all th' displays. Th' exhibits are free of charge."

"Never a shame to be proud to give the world things of beauty." Beauty was not what his voice was like. It was more hay and earth, the dust of grasses in the crack of aged throat. "But I am lax on my manners, miss. Since you are the proprietor," he spoke as he started his walk over. The feet did not shuffle, but he took his time and care as he went. "You must be Miss Juliane Smith." He offered out one of those speckled hands, thick knuckled, "I'm Josiah Timpkins, artist." The way he spoke the profession was with weight, pride against his weary worn look, and no little gravitas of a Lear.

Juliane blushed a bit as she took his hand and shook it warmly. "Seems I'm th' one lax on th' manners. But yes, I'm Juliane. A pleasure ta meet a fellow artist, Josiah." His skin was leather-soft and smooth, a distinctive contrast to her own cracked fingers. She'd been stretching canvases all day and the evidence was clear, scratches and burrs covering her hands. "Are ya new ta Rhy'din, Josiah?"

"Not so as anyone could say, Juliane." He took the grandfatherly assumption he could use her first name. "Came here by a drop in the Seine when I was a young man with hair of coal. Shame, too, as it was my first day in Paris." Anger and fear had been the overriding emotions those first years, but now it was humor. Gravel rumbling humor that showed a smile of teeth thinning enamel but clean and all his. "First time in those many years, there's been something here like this, and I think I recall reading something of studios for rent?"

His smile was infectious and she couldn't help but return it full bore. It felt a bit odd to be offering condolences while grinning, but she couldn't stop. "Yeah, a sorry shame. Though ya got ta see it a day while I've only seen it on holograms. I think it lacks somethin' in a holo." A small chuckle and then a pleased grin. "Yep, studios fer rent and plenty of spaces ta exhibit in, if the mood should ever strike." He reminded her of the grandfathers she had never met. If her grandfathers could be re-imagined as artists and not terra-forming farmers.

"Might I take a look at one?" If an old man could be transformed into a schoolboy by the mere thought of something, he had done it. He also felt so instantly at ease with this young lady. He had never had children, never married, but here was a spring of youth that shared his passion for art. On top of that, the hope to achieve more than he had in the years he had lived in Rhy'din.

A little nervous flutter stirred in her stomach. She had as of yet to lease a single one. "Why of course ya can, Just give me a moment, yeah?" Holding up a single finger, she came out from around the counter and made her way to the door, flipping the sign facing the street to read 'Gone to Lunch' and securing the lock on the door in quick order. It was New Haven, but she took no chances of vandalism or shop-lifting. A few more steps and she was standing shoulder to shoulder with the man. "They're all ta the second floor," she pointed towards the large staircase in the rear of the gallery, "if ya will just follow me." She paused, but decided against mentioning his pack a second time. Instead she moved towards the banister, her conversation light-hearted. "Do ya have a preference for east facin' or west?"

"Now then, let me see," he ruminated as he began the climb following after her. He used the handrail liberally, but he showed no threat of falling or feebleness. It was steady as he went. "Storms most come in from the west here, and there's a fine show of lights at times come sunset. Good for the moon, though, do wonder if there's more of an advantage, can't see the river or ocean from this street, can we?"

"Not from th' second story, but if ya don't mind bravin' the heights, ya can see it from the roof once ya clear th' surroundin' buildings." Reaching the top landing, she turned to wait for him, a hand digging in her pocket for her keys. "Haven't built a shelter up their yet, but th' thought's run through m' mind a time or two already. If there was say, another artist ta take advantage of it...well, it'd help me from feelin' too indulgent jist fer m'self, yeah?"

His smile revealed he took her meaning very well. "A rooftop offers a great deal of scope, the cliffs over an ocean of city, if you'll pardon the poetical. Well, then," he sighed as he reached the landing. "West if you would, Juliane, and the price you are looking for rent." He liked to talk the dirty details at the same time as viewing something much desired. It kept his perspective.

"Well, th' rent can be managed up ta three ways. Pure coin, coin and hours worked in th' gallery, or straight work." Key met lock and with only a slight wiggle before sliding it a quarter turn to the right. The door swung open easily, the late afternoon light pouring in the bank of windows in the corner that gave perspective of both the alley and the exspanse of Benson Boulevard. With Lucien's investment, she had no real reason to treat the studios as profit centers to line her pockets. And she was more than mindful of the cycle between needing space to work to make art to sell art to pay for space to work.

"Mmhmm," his lips showed off more wrinkles around them as they pursed. "Well, let me state up front, Juliane, that I've got no backstock at all. What I paint along the side of the river and ocean, I have to sell that day or out it goes. Makes one really improve their work fast." Grinning at his struggles instead of being bitter about them. "Still, what work would you want in the gallery?"

"Well, if ya wish studio based upon work, it's a forty hour month. Ya sign on for a ten hour week split inta two five hour shifts on th' days of yer choice. It's mainly bein' on hand ta man th' gallery space, welcome visitors, answer questions, and if a purchase is ta be made of a piece, handlin' th' transaction." Juliane had her thumbs hooked in belt loops and was leaning against the wall just inside the door, giving him a wide berth to walk and inspect the studio.

"And what time to I get in the studio for that' Equal time" 40 hours a month' Schedule out with studio share?" His questions roll out of his mouth easy and smooth. His eyes move over the room and the scene from the window in much the same way, but that is where his mind mostly lies. There is potential here, the storm of emotions of the city, its nitch of alley and its broader boulevard for him to capture and interpret.

"Fer th' exchange, th' studio's yer's exclusively. If ya choose ta do an artist share, that's a decision ya can make on yer own. As of present, there aren't any other studios reserved. So ya'd have ta provide th' other artist contact if ya have a mind ta share it." The room is equipped with an upholstered loveseat, a large table, a small kitchenette and a second-hand area rug on the floor. "There's a shared restroom down th' hall but it has a shower facility along wi' th' necessary."

That certainly drew his attention right around to her. "Juliane, now that is a fine offer, and I won't be denying it. You can't be making any money off of that, though. Are utilities included?" The way he said the word "utilities" made it obvious to him the concept was as foreign as that day in Paris.