early 2019

You didn’t plan for your life to feel like this. For a long time, you kept searching — scrolling through job listings late at night, sending applications, waiting for something that never quite felt right. You had worked as a makeup artist before. People liked your work, they praised your hands, your eye for detail. But every time you packed your brushes after another client, that same quiet feeling stayed with you: this isn’t it. Not your dream. Not even close.

One evening, at a small get-together with other makeup artists, someone mentioned artist management almost casually.
“You’d be good at it,” your acquaintance said, taking a sip of her drink. “You understand people. And creatives.”

You laughed it off at first. But later, lying in bed, the thought wouldn’t leave you alone.

The next day, without overthinking it, you opened a random job listing. No expectations. No pressure. You sent your CV almost impulsively — like you were throwing something into the unknown just to see if it would catch. A few days later, you got an email.

Interview invitation.

—

The building felt too big, too serious for people like you. But you went anyway.

You didn’t dress to impress anyone. Loose light-blue jeans with soft white fading, Adidas Spezial sneakers, a simple white top. Your hair was braided, tied neatly, and a black cap sat high on your head. You looked like yourself.

The interview had already started when you arrived. Questions. Answers. Polite nods. You spoke honestly, without trying to sound perfect. And then, partway through it, the door opened and someone came in and joined the meeting.

Joost Klein.

He just walked in, said a quick hello, and sat down like it was completely normal. No attention drawn to it, no interruption. He glanced at you briefly — just a quick look, curious but casual — before focusing on the conversation again. And the interview simply continued. But now you were aware of him sitting there. Because this was the artist you might end up working with. He leaned slightly back in his chair, looking over the table for a second before his attention shifted to you.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked, his tone simple, almost absentminded.