Saturday, October 19, 2013

the stroganoff painting

Carl sat on a three-legged stool in front of his easel, a paintbrush in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Margaret glared.

"Why do you get so upset all the time?" he said.  "My art is not about you, but if the shoe fits then go ahead and wear it."

"Yeah right it's not about me.  Stop sinning," she said.

"You're joking, right?  Just because I sin differently than you doesn't mean it's a good idea to judge me."  He pivoted on his seat so he could see her reaction.

She was annoyed but trying to hide it.

She nodded at his stroganoff painting, the one he had put up near the window.  "You must stop the offensive stuff.  You're not supposed to do it."

Carl took a drag of his cigarette.
 
"All you do is get offended," he said.  "If you weren't so busy thinking people were out to get you maybe you'd stop it with your usual retaliations and actually try to, you know, do something kind."

"That painting has a silver spoon in it and it's the same one I have in my kitchen drawer, the one I let you use to eat my pea soup."

"So what?" said Carl.

"So, you painted blood and poop all over it.  I'm not okay with that.  And you keep lying."

"Art is fabrication," he said.

Margaret glared.

"What if you tried looking for beauty in my paintings?"

"There's nothing beautiful about blood and poop," she said.

"Look again," said Carl.  "Look for the Something More."






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