It was at the pub, later that night, when Josh realised how sore his arms were. He'd been painting the canvas in situ, a private commission for a company who'd called in a favour with his father.
The office was minimalist concrete and so, to fuck with them, he was creating an impressionist rendition of the Golden Calf. He was using a palette knife, and the scraping of paint from the scaffold erected in the foyer was proving to be hard work. He was having trouble lifting his pot of beer. The individual fibres in his shoulder were fraying, or worst, unraveling off the bone.
The trouble was the palette knife required exertion, and an extension of his arm, so he could apply the paint at the correct angle. He was banking on the effect of movement, to counter the rigid straight lines of the concrete.
The painting would make sense from the vantage point of the front entrance. Everywhere else, it'll appear as a sea of colour and movement.
He was painting in the afternoons behind a large sheet protecting him from prying eyes. Once everyone, including the cleaners, left for the night, he'd remove it and stand at the entrance, observing it in its entirety.
He'd cross the road to the pub before the kitchen closed, have a few beers with his dinner, and allow his thoughts to percolate.
He was on the verge of seeing it take shape except for the damage he was doing to his arm.