Inside this modest living space, filled with modest furniture, that was once inhabited by acclaimed artist, Rembrandt, soaked in the decades of a man’s vivid imagination unleashed, and his passion to put that imagination on to canvas, the interiors of the house and the furniture still emanate a sombre feeling that is often felt when an artist has only the capacity to indulge his focus on completing the best version of his work in an effort to neutralise the frustration that almost feels like it is singeing the air about him from seeing his vision and ideal constructed by his imagination still incomplete. In reinforcing this instinctive experience of tension from an artist still at work that is so palpable in this space where masterpieces have been constructed that served as precedent justifying his claim to a unique ability, and also an encumbrance as a standard that will determine future success or failure, sits in the centre of this compact universe where surreality was produced is a painting still on the easel, appearing to be a complete work of art, but yet suggests the contrary. People are always searching for a place to belong to but often find no location apt, and are ultimately forced by circumstances to settle for a Starbucks, but not Rembrandt. This productive space where Rembrandt was inspired to create is symbolic of the workings of sympathetic fate, where a confluence of variables to form an equation that would be impossible without the union of artist and atelier.