Painter's Block

Wonderful local artist (forty miles up the road in Chillicothe) was in to see the Impressionism Show, and as an art student, 55 years ago, had met several of the painters. Closed a circle, compresses history. My Dad was five years old when Wyatt Earp died. Alan, the painter, tells great stories, just had a second show in two years at a very good gallery in fancy German Village, Columbus. The gallery owners advise local new money (or inherited, Columbus is a wealthy town) on what to buy. Last year Alan sold 24 out of 32 paintings shown, then gets another show and sells 18 of 24, on a roll. The story concerned even getting a second show so quickly (every other year is the norm) because the gallery had booked a recently retired from teaching painter for a show and he was suffering Painter's Block and Alan stepped into the breech, made a lot of money. We talked about blockage. He doesn't suffer it, nor do I, we both imagined this other guy was a painter who became a teacher. No longer knew what to do with his time. Lost the ability to function. There was a guy at Janitor College that was a basket case, Vernon, so sweet, he'd won the Marine Corp Award For Musical Excellence, playing the cymbals, for god's sake, and then had done a tour of duty in Vietnam, any loud noise and he was on the floor. He hated hallways. I liked him because we shared a bluegrass background, he was from Kentucky or extreme southern Ohio, where a mark was legally accepted because no one learned to write. I was back in touch with him recently, his grand-daughter got in touch with me, actually, wondering what we could do: I might be termed a fatalist, I told her nothing. Still, I wonder.

Tom

A crow is working
the roadkill squirrel
on the bridge where
the race escapes
the spillway.