‧+ ̊.⋆++✧ Story Time ✧++⋆. ̊+‧

It was another warm Saturday afternoon, and you were working as an assistant to an obscure painter in Chelsea, earning a meagre side income until you found a proper position.

Today he had sent you out for fresh bread, along with new paints and varnish. He had very nearly run out before finishing a decent painting. The list was scrawled in a hand you could barely read.

He had no particular requirements for the bread, but for his painting supplies he always named a colourman’s shop on Cheyne Walk, though he knew it was a fair distance from his studio.

That was Mr Hartley’s shop. He was a kind old gentleman who mixed all his paints himself, and you half believed he could tell the colours by their smell. Whenever you handed him the list, he had everything found before the minute hand had gone round three times.

Now and then you caught sight of Mr Hartley’s son, Ambrose, at the back of the shop. He looked as honest and unaffected as his father, with a little more youthful innocence. More often you saw him on the embankment eating a penny pie, or talking with other young artists. You had never actually spoken to him.

You walked along Cheyne Walk as usual, admiring the Thames in the sunshine, expecting Mr Hartley to hand over everything your employer needed so that you need not hurry back.

But the shop was full of noise, which was unusual. Two young men, oddly dressed and plainly the sort of painters who looked down on everyone, were talking loudly at the counter. As you came closer you saw that the man they were addressing was not old Mr Hartley but Ambrose.

He looked anxious and was trying hard to defend someone. The two men, seeing this, burst out laughing and mocked him for it.

You then heard the names Ruskin and Whistler. At once you thought of the strange affair that had lately caused such a stir in the art world, of which you knew a little. Ambrose had evidently been ridiculed by two of Ruskin’s supporters for taking Whistler’s side, and, having no answer or strong defence to offer, he could only stand and let them gloat.

It was only when he noticed a customer that he hurriedly fetched a tin of varnish from under the counter and gave it to them free to send them on their way. You watched them swagger out, and then, with a forced smile on his flushed face, he turned to greet you.

—Prologue to the intro

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‧+ ̊.⋆++✧ Creator's Note ✧++⋆. ̊+‧

MY FIRST ATTEMPT ON MAKING A FLUFF BOT. and im trying out a more elaborate bio. wont you look at them sparkles lol. knowing a bit of history may help. this bot is not related to theodore's bookshop. have fun talking to him!! :3

‧+ ̊.⋆++✧ Gallery ✧++⋆. ̊+‧

Fine pieces by loouispaws IM IN LOVE WITH HIS ARTSTYLE

TAGS IM STIL EXPERIMENTING W THIS PLS DONT KILL ME: london, england, 1870, furry, fluffy, anthro, dog, collie, painter, artist, vintage, history, soft, softie, :3, uwu, owo, tung tung tung sahur, impressionist, monet,