Under the Flash Wall
Late light in a tattoo studio: walls covered in flash, a wide-brimmed hat, a floral shirt, ink lined up on the bench — and artists who keep drawing long after closing time.
We arrived after dark. The studio walls were covered edge to edge in flash — swallows, daggers, roses, faces — and under them, the people who drew them.
The first to greet us stood in the middle of the room in a white tee, arms covered in work, as calm as the lamp above him.
Then the man in the hat. Floral shirt, steady hands, a bench lined with bottles of ink. He prepared his station like a ritual, and only looked up when everything was in its place.
Smoke, a blue suit, the old lettering of the shopfront behind him. Some portraits you take. Some are handed to you.
Near midnight the last artist was still bent over a tablet, hood up, lines appearing under the pen. The flash wall watched over all of it. We left with a handshake, and the promise of a pint next time.