The Artist’s MechanicWhat am I doing here?
I sat in a small classroom, sun still shining bright through the windows at seven o’clock in the evening, since it was early summer. There were eleven women and men who all looked to be over the age of sixty milling around in front me, adjusting their easels and checking their paintbrushes and such. Everyone seemed excited to be there, while I felt like someone had just put diesel fuel in my gasoline tank, and now the engine wouldn’t start. How the hell did I end up in this predicament?
Oh, yeah. My baby brother Marco had tricked me.
Okay, so it wasn’t quite a trick, but he’d somehow shifted the blame for his lack of enthusiasm to attend school to me, saying, “Oh, well you never graduated, ergo, why should I?” after which I reminded him that I
