August 15, 2009

Painted well, based on inspiration derived from watching a video tour of the National Gallery, London.

A dazzlingly handsome young man has a display of sketches on the second floor of the Phil Mechanic. The subjects of the sketches then write an anecdote of their lives on the same sheet that bears the sketch. The sketches are pretty bad, and the whole effect is shoddy, though there are thousands of them, and the artist finds welcome wherever he goes. I think that has to do more with his face than his art, but–. He asked me if I would pose for a sketch, and my reaction surprised us both. I didn’t answer, but the look on my face must have been withering, for he physically recoiled. I was ashamed of myself, and made it up to him by giving him hundreds of dollars worth of acrylics to use for his sketches. He filled his bag with the acrylics and went out into the hall and, after “thank you so much,” didn’t speak to me again. I understood. My face had betrayed something it shouldn’t have, and even I don’t know exactly what it was. It didn’t have to do with his sketches. It had to do with my usually-under-control-but-nevertheless-advanced dread of seeing my own image. In photos, even as a young child, I am clearly trying to shrink from the camera. There is on exception. It is a photo of me on my first birthday, in the kitchen of the apartment at Pond View, one lit candle in the cake before me. I look so happy. I am pure happiness, with no self-consciousness at all. That was practically the last time.

Departmental potluck convivial. A great oak stands dead in their forest. Four pileated woodpeckers rattled and shrieked in one cherry tree.