It is st(art)ing to work

I can hear her behind me. First there are the feet. They move across the wooden floorboards. The short heels drag. The soles twist. A different sound is the work itself. First a kind of enforced dabbling, some dabbing, some smoothing, gentle scratches, the odd scrape. Then the feet kick in again as the artist steps back and presumably reviews - I can't bear to look - her work. Relief descends on the room as the artist is not dabbling, dabbing, scratching, or scraping within, but is committing herself, outwardly and with progress. It is st(art)ing to work.