Dearest Plant Keeper,
Before I answer you about the fragile fruit situation, I wanted to let you know that the elevator in the loft is on the damn fritz. I lug my canvases up the back stairs; annoyed at first, having to go pee, and then beyond frustration I begin to laugh remembering our little cubby inside the farmhouse. You know the place. Under the stairs. We'd hide there when Dad began to yell. You'd grab your little Dixie Cup bean plant. Masking tape emblazoned with your official title marked in scribbled handwriting. All upper case. THE PLANT KEEPER. Of all the things you wanted to protect while he smashed his way through the creaky floored rooms was your sprouted greenery.
Forget about the apples for this season my love. Nature has decided.
I've started a new series of paintings. "Miracle Whip". This triptych is called, 'Whose Joint Is This Anyway?". The Latino lady who runs the bodega smirked and her cousin was so offended.
What do you think?
Oh. And about the rainfall. You better do another dance tonight. It didn't work.
(Read the whole story here)
Patti Friday, Photojourno, reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'.