An Artist Needs Compassion

A staple gun, a dowel, wood glue, nails, a long handled wrench, a hammer, barbed wire clipped from an abandoned shed, a pencil, a Sharpie, a saw, tools he has strewn on a lace table cloth.

He wears a beanie to keep his long hair out of his eyes. He sings in a loud voice while he works. My son is building a tripod where he will hang a clay head he has sculpted. Last night I dreamed about my friend whose son died in his sleep when he was 17. A true story. Freeboarder graduates from high school in May.

He started a new painting tonight. He asked if Aurelia could stay with us because she’s sleeping in her car, and I said she could, even though I’d rather not have her here. He’s teaching me to sand my sharp edges.

2 thoughts on “An Artist Needs Compassion

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