Before moving her feet forward, her body led the way. Leaning around the corner, at first, she could only see the artist’s back and her inwardly curled tufts of hair that rounded off her otherwise perfectly straight and squared-off, grey hairdo that stopped just above her shoulders. It bounced along with her head gently around the beat of the music. Taking a step and posing a hand on the corner, Ben saw her in full. Clara Touladeaux: an artist of more-than-moderate renown and esteem, though one would never be able to tell by the frumpy frock-like clothing she was known for wearing. In front of her on an easel was a canvas featuring a half-drawn, wobbly, and paint-stroke ridden circle. Each stroke, of which failed to complete the circle at nearly the same spot, was a different color that Ben could only assume was carefully chosen for some artsy reason relating to Paris, or to some movement that no doubt ended with ism.