Yesterday, a nice couple from the big city came to peruse the archive. They left with three paintings and a piece of my pride. The negative kind of pride, that over time, turns the eager, inquisitive mind into the sour, cynical one. I hope they threw it out the car window on the way back home. I hope a Mack truck hit it head on and killed it.
When we were discussing purchase price, I felt my eyeballs bleeding. I have the most difficult time making trades with money. On the market of widget exchange, they did get a good deal. Likewise, on the figurative market of right living, I secured enough faith in the future to afford rent for the next several months.
Art is for peasants to make. Like good beets or healthy garlic, it should be affordable and accessible to anyone holding enough imagination to want to get up and continue for another day. Thank you aristocrats of the spirit, Tyler and Sophia, for taking a better part of Sunday to purchase a painter’s peck of potatoes.