You feel a few curious news bees buzzing beside your face as you sit still in the meadow, the wind blurring the line between painting and reality. It was gorgeous - the brush, the deer, the trees, the flowers, the man.

Wait - the man?

Your eyes focus on a person standing in front of you, your eyes moving but your head staying still. He stares down at you, his expression unreadable and his posture posh. "Mind moving? I need this spot." He murmurs, and you then promptly look around. There were miles and miles of meadow for him to go. Why here?

He held onto his forearm sized canvas, fully expecting you to move so he could paint the landscape; and very possibly you in the process.