A soft clank signifies movement, a latch falling, the door handle turning and slowly the wooden gateway edges ajar revealing the dusty face of a smallish man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, sporting a beaming smile spotlit by the bright morning sun. I thrust my hand forward with a very British hello but am instead met by a tentative gnarled stump where his right hand should have been. I quickly produce my left hand, this time greeted by enthusiastic fingers welcoming me to his domain.

Stepping through in to the cool and dark interior of his home-slash-workplace, we pass discarded wooden frames laying cracked and snapped beyond any reasonable rescue, heavy machinery leans casually against rotting walls purring in unison with an almost comfy malcontent, and wires of all lengths and colours hang off protrusions from floor to ceiling carrying what sounds like a very high voltage current. Tangled in a web of wood shavings and crackling electricity we stumble on through the dark maze, briefly emerging in a stream of dusty sunlight emanating from an unseen window above. Yellow shafts descend through the cavernous ceiling space and gently settle on a life-size portrait of Chairman Mao garbed in resplendent military regalia, his piercing eyes watching our every move.

The communist-red background glows like a beacon on a foggy night, casting ominous bloody hues across the surrounding carnage. The unfinished, hand-carved wooden frame oozes intricate Chinese style, each curve and cut revealing the true skill of its experienced artist. My host smiles and pointing towards Mao claps his hand and stump together as if praying, then vanishes off into the gloom, ducking wires as he goes.

We congregate in what was once the living room, a workshop centered around a huge glass-topped table covered with thousands of dog-eared prints. Casually sweeping them aside he presents me with a space for my proposal. Carefully, I unfurl the 3 x 2 meter print I painstakingly protected en-route to our rendezvous, the rolled-up cylinder unraveling with increasing speed until the final coil springs open with a satisfying thwap on the table.

“So, I need this framed for a client” I say in my best Mandarin. It obviously wasn’t what I said when he begins to talk at speed about something entirely unconnected to my request.

I try again, this time with a healthy dose of Charades. This time he seems to understand and smiling back elicits a weak groan as he sits down muttering deadlines and workloads. I’ve evidently arrived at a busy time so apologetically start to roll the image back up, my last hope dashed by a life-sized portrait of Mao.

In the far corner of the living room, a room which I had up until that point assumed only contained two people, emanated a grating noise through our awkward silence, dust motes dancing and shaking as a piece of wall began to move. A fake wall.

From behind the painted plywood construction walked a neatly dressed woman with her child, the mother holding a tray of teacups, the daughter a packet of wafers. Approaching the table they set down the cups and motioning to the slouched artiste suggested it was in his best interest to take my offer, else his family relationship may take a turn for the worse.

With a smirk growing across his wrinkled face, a wink of an eye and a quick rub of a stiff missing limb, our hero brakes the stand-off with a loud, hearty Chinese chuckle. It’s time for Mao to take a back seat for a day or two.