Between seven and eight in the morning,
under the AZ Studio sign,
the door stood open. 🙌
Inside;
the smell of paint,the rustle of paper,
the"chup" of a brush dipped in water,
all blending together. đź–Ś
At the front table,two interns
carry a canvas across the room.
One exclaims,"This shade is wrong!"
Another rushes to feed paper into the printer.
Through the middle of it all,
Anisa,
sketchbook in hand,oversees their work.
Her eyes are constantly moving;
missing nothing,watching everything.
"The wall mural needs to be finished today."
"The client mock-up before ten."
"No excuses." đź—Ł
She doesn't raise her voice.
But her voice carries weight.
When a painter in the corner places a brushstroke wrong, đź–Ľ
Anisa pauses for a moment,
takes the brush from his hand,
and calmly demonstrates the correct line.
"You can't rush art.
But you can't ignore the deadline either."
Coffee mugs sit half-full.
Hands are stained with paint. 🎨
Within the bustle,
the studio is strangely organized.
That's because of Anisa.
By ten in the morning,
the studio is still a whirlwind. đź•™
But it's not chaos,
it's the chaos of creation.
What she wants is for the business to thrive,for orders to grow, for tasks to multiply, but for the quality of the work to remain as high as ever, executed perfectly. It's a controlled, purposeful storm she's learning to command. đź’Ş