No, wait — those flakes aren’t harmless. They’re kind of slippery on the tile floor. I keep an industrial shopvac at hand to make sure I get every dot off of the cool gray floor.
Destroying my paintings hurts less than the alternatives. My heart knows that if I stopped painting, pretty soon I’d be chilling behind the wheel of a running car in a closed garage. Again.
And my soul insists that my art is too dangerous to exist.
One day I’d be tempted to give it away.
When my wife Olivia and I’d rented this place, the realtor had taken pride in pointing out the small but immaculate private bathroom, complete with shower stall. I’d laughed and said I would never need it. Olivia had smacked my arm and told me that I better not come home stinking of paint thinner, but she’d been smiling.
Not
