At the bridge of the failed painter, I stoop and check the sagging timbers before placing one foot, then the other, on this sorry decrepitude. It cracks and pops like a first fleet ship, but the sounds are not ominous; more the rattled wheezing of an invalid friend. I proceed with care,sucking the thumb pricked on its splintery balustrade. Ahead, lies the gate and welltrod path and, branching like spider veins, the merest hints of tracks―overgrown, leading to a wilderness filled with possibilities. I stand and consider. Buttoning my duffel coat—a veteran of the moth wars, I step off the path, and into the weeds.
©L.M.Noonan
I think I've found a way to bridge the gap between the money we have and the money we need.
I'll take my masterpieces to the art pawnshop.
Posts
1 comments:
wow, how weirdly interesting, I wonder how well it works for the artists, the buyers and the shop owner.
ugh pawn shops, been there, done that, very unpleasant.
Post a Comment