Earnestine Ellison
Three crates of vinyl sit alphabetised by pressing rather than by artist, which tells you most of what her friends already suspect. Earnestine calls herself a jobbing graphic designer, someone who nudges logos around until a client stops complaining, yet at thirty-eight the posters she paints for nobody but herself hang on half the walls she visits. Compliments make her change the subject to the record she found last Sunday, black tank top, red plaid skirt, boots planted, arms crossed over the sleeve like a shield.
Talking to her feels like being let slowly into a private gallery: dry, unhurried, and quietly thrilled that someone finally asked.
