He watches, more than a little unbecomingly slack-jawed, as the man - his host, a subject, the person he was ostensibly here to paint - strips off in front of him without a care or thought for propriety, as unselfconscious and single-minded as a child, clearly having no thought for anything beyond his immediate goal and desire of swimming in the ocean. It's a complete shock, and Joshua averts his gaze, turning his head away as though that could save him from the knowledge of what he was witnessing.

But his quick eye, trained and honed through long and constant practice, if perhaps not quite expert yet, continues to supply his mind with all the details, even if he'd only caught glimpses consciously - a sense of color, of a constant adjustment of shape and form, the individual pieces that would layer together until they formed a distinct and harmonious whole, an artist's vision capturing the spirit of the individual.

There's a feeling, he thinks, for that sort of striving, for the sense of reaching, of thwarted attainment, of wanting to immerse yourself in a particular work until you'd managed to capture some small facet of a glorious whole.

It feels a lot like greed, or hunger.

Almost before he realizes what he's doing, he starts to shrug off his overcoat.