This is an unpaid commission requested by a nice woman at my daughter’s wedding last week. After telling me she liked my work very much (with ensuing blood vessel rush up to the front of my cheek skin), she asked if I would donate one of my paintings to her Rotary for auction. Well, her Rotary is Fairport, so in the studio I dreamed an American village without fat stomach tattoos of Zen writing calligraphy. On house lawns the “F” word was being soaped out of the mouths of children who forgot to respect the peace of empathy. I dreamed a village square void of any Chinese made gew-gaw gadget of pure unhappiness. By a fountain a young man with empty wide pockets and a young woman in a flower sun dress counted their hopes for a bottle of red wine and a fresh baked loaf. Easy peasey dreaming a place without real people.
Fairport can be a 19th century French village with modern medicine and Wi-Fi humming up and down the shimmering canal. It need only a touch of fear and trembling of something much larger than a Fairport to revitalize reverence and respect. A warrior king, a retributive Gaia, a god to actually drop down a son or daughter to show us what’s what or else… Yes, I declare Fairport to be the village of love, however, you should read the line in the next painting—”First, I need the rest of you shiftless squatters to get the hell out.”
I hope it can make the Rotary 50 bucks richer.