WORKING IN OIL
“THE PLACE IS INSPIRATIONAL.” I said. “The old buildings. The orchards. The river…”
“It’s the pace,” the painter said. Something in his voice matching the soft collage of oily hues rainbowing each of his thick hands. “Everything just slows down here.” He chuckled, “About thirty years ago, I got drunk down the street and I woke up and never left.” Sheepish grin. “Or maybe I just didn’t wake up.”
I judged several pieces hung up in the old studio’s wall or leaning against it from the floor.
“We… my partner and me… we use real paint, you know.”
“I know.”
© 2009
Church of the Open Road Press
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