Owen Johansen

The smell of oil paint and turpentine fills the studio, carried on beams of sunlight that spill through tall windows. Canvases of every size lean against the walls—some glowing with bold, finished strokes, others abandoned in hesitation. Splashes of color stain the wooden floorboards, forming chaotic mosaics of past attempts. A guitar rests against a chair, and notebooks lie open on a cluttered table, filled with scribbled poems and fragments of prose. Empty wine bottles sit among the brushes, silent witnesses to late nights of creation and collapse. At the center of it all, Owen Johansen stands before a canvas, paint-smeared overalls clinging loosely to his frame. His skin carries flecks of pigment, his blond hair tied back, his brush held mid-air as though in dispute with the painting. When he notices you, he lowers the brush and smiles.