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10:35 a.m. - 2004-11-09
Downpour
A friend of my mothers had a model sailing ship in his attic, and he let me borrow it for my bathroom art commission. The first day I set it up in my basement studio against a blue and green backdrop but then just goofed around; I pretended I was a seagull who could fly past the ship and see everything. I even looked into the captain's window just in time to see the unlucky cabin boy asking, "What do I hafta do to get offa this ship?"

Once I got past that I photographed the model ship from different angles and with different lighting. I decided to take the photos to the guy I was working for to see if he preferred one view over another. Dumb mistake, because he decided he just wanted the photograph and to hell with me doing a painting for him. Then he was pissed because my fee was the same either way. So I enlarged the photo, matted and framed it, and went to his place with the painting carefully wrapped and stored in the back seat of my car. I knew there would be problems with the payment, just because of the guy's history. His wife was there but didn't know when he'd be home and claimed she couldn't write the check herself. So I left and began a series of phone calls trying to make touch with Uncle Scrooge. His excuses became a constant source of entertainment for me, but eventually he had make like George Steinbrenner in the commercial, writing the check and wincing.

Yesterday I told Clare about the whole thing and decided to show her the painting. We drove to the guy's house. It was raining something awful. I know people overuse metaphors all the time to tell you how hard it was raining, but if this rain had been fog you could have cut it with a knife. We were soaked before we even got to his porch. Then when I told him I wanted to show my friend his bathroom he got all emo and wouldn't let us in.

"Now I'm soaked and insulted," I tell Clare.

"Everything isn't about you," she says angrily.

"When did that change?" I want to know.

 

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