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The text had been explicit in detail and implicit in directions. So what time he'd had between getting situated and ring ready was spent reading up on the gallery in question - layout, features, current artists. He'd of hoped for a better window but since the next day he was going to be potentially walking away from his fight like he'd walked into a door - he saw the merit in the meeting now rather than after - when people would wonder if he was physically okay.

So no less than five minutes after his cousin he arrived, dressed to impress - cutting a better line in his suit than usual since he was currently in the process of cutting to make weight for his fight tomorrow. He was as sharp and clean as anyone was going to see him.

The excess of red in one of the main displays had him of an interesting mind. Red was the color of passion after all - but to him the works spoke more of an excess and an excuse to slater as much of the stuff around as possible - regardless - he wasn't going to voice an opinion on the stuff unless he was asked directly.

Early was good - He knew she'd beat him here easy - so as he approached where she stood taking in the art of the main lobby.

"All present and accounted for," He said as he reached her. "Any last minute information I need to know - or did my extensive read up of the place fill me in with enough?"

No pressure - and on a day when his mood was going to be edgy just due to the nature of the beast that was his diet at the moment and running literally only enough water to keep him alive.

He took a deep breath and nodded. The extra information was helpful. The fact that their host was of a certain persuasion meant he could leave the awkward half-flirtation at the door.

"Got it," he said with a nod. "Good to know that we all have an exit clause built in. But, we'll see how things go. We both know I'm not allergic to working hard."

If anything - he worked harder than he should at times - but that was beside the point.

So here was hoping he didn't nuke things from orbit.

There were a handful of times that Mathias had ever met someone that made him feel like he was in over his head and completely out of his element. Meeting the director was very swiftly appended to the end of that list. Justine LaMoine was one of those people who exuded their personality in a way that made it clear that they put up with little and less when it came to bullshit.

Mathias gave her a polite bow, not quite sweeping but one arm stayed behind his back as the other dipped with his upper torso not quite a full 45 degrees. No handshake was offered - she didn't seem the type for physical interaction - and he hoped that the bow would suffice.

"If you'll allow me a moment of humility," He said with a dry chuckle. "Not sure if famous would be the word used. Infamous perhaps - depending on who you asked."

He bowed his head all the same in affirmation to her statement. "That said - Street art is my preferred and favorite medium," He admitted. "Oil is a narrow second - but there's something very... unique - in the way aerosol works on stone."

He followed, realizing that he'd broken the ice - but on an awkward footing. Mathias had never been good in these kinds of situations - as Delilah had pointed out, authority and following it was not natural to him - barring a handful of people, who had earned his respect.

"Thank you," He said, not sure if it was a compliment or not - but it felt wrong to not address the statement. "I'd say it was cultivated - but, I'm sure Delilah has told you I'm - as they say - an odd duck."

"As to that... Both," Mathias offered. "I have a B.A. in Fine Art, but I was doing street art well before then. I will say though that it was during my formal education is when I discovered my love of oil on canvas - but spray-paint on stone was my first love."

"The crucible is for silver, and the furnace is for gold, and the Lord tests hearts," Mathias breathed - mostly to himself. Trial by fire. Sink or swim. Jump in with both feet on a day that he was not on his best. He knew it - Delilah knew it. Justine might have guessed it from how he spoke or how he moved or acted. But in either event, he looked around the room, nodding to himself.

He met Delilah's gaze and gave her an easy "I've got this" smile. It was a smile she would be all too familiar - usually when he knew he was in over his head but was going to wade in up to his neck anyway because someone had double-dog-dared him to try.

"I'll do my best, ma'am," He said, giving the director a three-finger boy scout style salute before moving over to one of the sheets, pulling them aside to see what he was working with.

And weather he was going to need to hang his jacket somewhere while he did this whole thing.

"St. Luke, if you could do me a solid, an intercession would be great right now," Mathias said to himself as he looked over the grab-bag of art that lay under the sheets. Justine had marked him well - he was a very proud individual - and more than once he'd been hoisted on his own petard. The hospital had been a major blow to him though - especially now that he knew just how much of an a** he had looked.

It had made him eat the crow while it was still young and tender - still unappetizing but better than it being old and tough.

The jacket came off immediately. He hung it over the nearest surface that was available and clean, before unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves. He had a handful of hours - art by an unknown artist whom he personally did not find appealing - and he could feel the eyes upon him, so he knew he was being watched. He didn't bother to look for a CC-TV camera or a nook somewhere. His hairs stood on the back of his neck and that was enough to know.

No Pressure. An interview for him as much as her. Simple, easy.

He paused, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a moment.

"Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you," He breathed out, letting go of all his anger, frustration, anxiety, and fear that had built up over the morning and early afternoon.

He had been given a task - a mission - a duty - something that had to be finished in a finite amount of time - to the satisfaction of the person who had asked him to do it. He didn't have to like the art to start to see the idea behind it. Abstract as it was. While his abstractions tended to be more grounded in reality and less - completely out there - but at the end of the day - abstraction was one of those more cleaved to forms of modern art that he... found very little interest in professionally.

Those watching above would see a marked change in posture at this point. What had before been a relaxed, casual, even slightly agitated stance became something more firmly rooted and determined. Where before he had been a man ready to shift through useless trite in the hopes of finding something decent, now stood someone willing to put the pieces of the puzzle together - even if it took him the whole three hours to do so.

And so he started, picking up a piece and hanging it on the wall, not in what he personally felt was most appealing - but what he felt gave him the most visceral and... gut feeling... of what felt like the artist's intent. Each new piece was compared and cataloged in his hand, and more than a few times he moved a piece from one place to another - altering the feel and flow of the exhibit until finally, after a solid two-and-a-half hours, he carefully folded up the sheets, ensured that there were no last minute pieces he had missed. He rolled down his sleeves, slipped back on his jacket, and stood in the center of the room to take in the full gallery. It spoke of passion - of anxious energy - but also boldness and pursuit to him - he just hoped that was also the author's intent - but with no manifest - with no suggestions - he had gone with what his instincts had told him to do.

Even if all he wanted to do now was find the nearest couch and sleep for the rest of the evening.

Mathias nodded. "Yes, ma'am," He said, falling in to join her as she lead him out of the room, sheets in hand, making sure the room was as clean of his own presence as it could be when he left it. It was hard to try and put yourself in the mind of someone else - and he was sure that something of his won had bled through a little - but who knew - he would have to wait and see what she said.

But that could wait until they got to wherever they were going - he was curious to see how he'd done with her test. He was pretty sure it was pass fail - so he wasn't too concerned about the grade.

There was ALWAYs room to improve. Always.