I went to this website:
http://shortstoryideas.herb.me.uk/scenarios.htm
The short story scenario it suggested was this:
"A taxi is the location, kindness is the theme. A hat is an object that plays a part in the story."
This is what I came up with:
It was raining and it was cold. Abraham Lincoln raised his arm and leaned into the street. A yellow taxi swerved into the right lane and pulled up in front of him. Lincoln opened the door and swept his gangly frame into the back seat. He wiped the rain from his eyes and peered at the driver’s license. It read, “Abraham Lincoln.” No surprise there. It was the year 2015, the 150th anniversary of the sixteenth president’s death, and Lincolnmania had swept the nation. Men grew their beards into the familiar, not-quite-Amish shape and took to wearing black, stovepipe hats. A traveler from the past would be amused to hear the majority of men speaking in a high-pitched, girly voice. Of course, said traveler wouln’t be aware of the recently discovered recordings of President Lincoln’s most famous speeches, rendering all previous, low-pitched and growly depictions obsolete. Much like the way dinosaurs were portrayed in films and television before scientists concluded that the majority of larger dinosaurs had feathers, cat-like eyes, and spoke with a British accent.
Mr. Lincoln spoke with a Mid-eastern accent, “Where are you going?”
“Corner of 6th avenue and 9th is fine, thanks,” replied Mr. Lincoln.
They drove through the rain in silence. The back-seat president held his considerable hat in his lap as he stared out the window. The sound of the rain, along with the hypnotic swirly patterns it made on the window made him drowsy. They stopped for a red light and that was when Lincoln the Passenger saw an Abraham Lincoln, soaked to the skin, waving frantically for a taxi.
“Mr. Lincoln, why don’t you pick up that poor fellow? I’d be happy to share the ride.”
The driver obliged and pulled over. From inside the cab, Abraham Lincoln watched a tall, gangly fellow clad in black try to enter the back seat while also fumbling with a broken umbrella and a paper shopping bag. He tossed the bag onto the floor of the cab and tried to collapse the umbrella, which was not cooperating.
“Come on!” called the driver in a shrill voice. Lincoln gave up on the umbrella, threw it onto the sidewalk and entered the taxi. As he did, his black stovepipe hat bumped into the doorway, tumbled into the wet street and got carried away in the stream. He cursed and shook his fist at the escaping hat, finally closing the door.
“That hat cost me five dollars and one cent!” Lincoln grumbled girlishly. It wasn’t surprising. The cost of the hat I mean, not the voice. We covered the voice thing already. Everything cost five dollars and a penny nowadays. It was to honor the memory of president Abraham Lincoln, whose visage graces both the five dollar bill and the once cent penny. It wreaked havoc with the stock market, but there it was.
Abraham Lincoln, the new one, glanced from the driver to the other passenger and let out a small gasp.
“Oh, forgive me. I thought this taxi was unoccupied,” he said.
“Not at all, “ said Lincoln the Original Passenger, “Please share the ride. I insist.”
“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” said Lincoln.
“Will you two knock it off,” called Driver Lincoln. “Where you headed, Mr. Lincoln?”
“I already told you, driver. The corner of 6th and-“
“Not YOU, Mr. Lincoln. Him!” The driver pointed a bony finger at the new, wet, hatless passenger.
“Oh, I’m…terribly sorry. I’ll be headed home, driver. That’s 413 8th Street,” he said as he shook off his wet pants and coat. He ran his hands through his wet hair. “Infernal hat!” he chirped.
The taxi pulled out into traffic and navigated the wet streets, wipers slapping furiously.
“Abraham Lincoln,” said the first passenger and stuck out his hand.
“Likewise,” said the second passenger, and shook it.
“Got big plans? Asked the dryer Lincoln.
“Sadly, no. Biggest day of the year tomorrow and I’ve nowhere to be. Mary’s taken Robert to New York to visit family, but my firm is trying to close a big merger deal so it’s likely I’ll be working through the holiday.”
“I’m sorry to hear such sad news,” said the first Lincoln and put a consoling hand on the second Lincoln’s knee.
The two looked knowingly into each other’s eyes for a moment until a loud car horn broke the moment and they both stared out into their respective windows, fidgeting nervously.
“My Mary…she doesn’t understand my work,” said the second Lincoln. The first Lincoln turned to look at him. It was only then that he noticed the second Lincoln’s black eye. Second Lincoln turned to First Lincoln, saw him staring and self-consciously put his hand up to his face. “It’s nothing,” he said, “Mary just…sometimes….she…I deserved it,” he finished lamely.
Lincoln took Lincoln’s hand in his and said, “My fine fellow. We all know what it’s like. There’ no shame in it. Remember, Marriage is neither heaven nor hell, it is simply Purgatory. Most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be. You say your Thanksgiving plans are to sit alone on the couch and watch football while the rest of the city sings Thanksgiving carols and watches the fireworks and opens presents? No, my dear boy. I won’t have it.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his iPhone, tapped it a few times and put it up to his considerably large ear. “Mary? Abe. Listen, put another a chair at the table; I’m bringing home a friend.”
Second Lincoln’s eyes grew wide at that.
“No, Mary, I know. Yes, Mary. Yes. His name’s Lincoln. Yes, Abraham Lincoln. Yes, Mary. Alright. I’ll see you soon. Alright. Goodbye, Mary.” He tapped off his phone, slipped it back into his pocket and gave Lincoln a satisfied smile.
“You didn’t have to do that. I don’t even know you,” said Second Lincoln.
“You are Abraham Lincoln and that’s good enough for me.”
The taxi skidded to a stop. “That’s five and a penny. EACH!” called Driver Lincoln without looking back.
“Please, allow me,” said First Lincoln and opened his wallet. He took out two fives and two pennies, handed them to the driver and collected his suitcase. Second Lincoln gathered his wet bags and began to open his door.
“Mr. Lincoln?” called out First Lincoln. Second Lincoln stopped with one leg sticking out into the street and turned around. First Lincoln was holding out his own hat.
“You’ve a trying day, sir. Please take it. You need it more than I.”
Second Lincoln reached out and took the hat, his hand brushing over the other Lincoln’s fingers in the process. He stepped out of the car, reached his hand in and helped First Lincoln out. The taxi sped out into the wet, cold night and the two Lincolns stood side-by-side.
“Most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be,” said First Lincoln. “Whatever you are, be a good one.”
“I will prepare and some day my chance will come,” said Second Lincoln.
They entered the house and had the first of many Thanksgiving meals together.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Sunday, March 06, 2011
A COW NAMED LARRY by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Russ Lichter
The glass window slid open and the woman behind it called out, “Lawrence Gentoo!”
Larry put down the magazine he was reading and stood up. He walked to the door and nodded at the woman in the window as he passed by. The man at the desk looked tired. He was balding and looked like he hadn’t shaved or slept well in several days. Larry sat down in the worn chair across from the man’s desk.
“Gimme a minute,” said the man, without looking up at Larry. Larry sat patiently as the man shuffled some papers around, making the occasional mark on them as he filed them away. Larry stared intently out the small window. Finally he turned to his computer and clicked on the mouse.
“Lawrence Gentoo?” the man asked, scrolling him mouse lazily on his desk.
“Larry, yes,” he replied.
“Larry,” the man repeated, still looking at the computer monitor. “Well, Larry, I really don’t have anything for you this week. I mean, I’m looking at your file here and I gotta say, you’re not making it easy for yourself. I mean, I can set you up with a law office-“
Larry’s back straightened slightly.
“-but they need someone to organize files…which are below street level and I can see that’s not going to work for you.”
Larry slumped back in his seat.
“Look, Larry,” the man behind the desk sighed, taking his glasses off, “I’m here to help you. But you gotta help me. I can get you any number of temp jobs, but I just can’t guarantee a window for you.”
“I have claustrophobia, Mr. Baumgarten,” Larry said with a tinge of whininess as he instinctively looked out the window again, “You put me in a room with no windows and I’ll walk right out. I can’t help it.”
Mr. Baumgarten looked pityingly at Larry.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah. Well, look, give me your email address and I’ll send you the first thing that comes across my desk that will suit your…situation, OK?” He tore off a page from his yellow pad and pushed it across the desk to Larry. Larry pulled a pencil from the cup on the desk, wrote down his email address, thanked Mr. Baumgarten and went home.
Larry checked his email frequently, but nothing from the temp office came. He called the office a few times to make sure he hadn’t missed any messages from Mr. Baumgarten, but he had not. Larry’s savings were starting to run dry. The bills kept coming. He was going to have to think of something fast.
***
Larry was sitting in his kitchen, staring out the window, when the phone rang. Larry stared at it passively as it rang. He was sure he had stopped paying the phone bill, besides, who really called him anyway? After the fourth ring, he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. It took him a moment to remember what to do next in this situation.
“Hello?” he finally croaked.
“Larry Gentoo?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Lawrence, yes,” he replied.
“Lawry, it’s Russ Baumgarten….from the employment bureau..”
“Hello,” Larry replied. He felt nervous for some reason. He tried frantically to remember what he was supposed to have done that he didn’t.
“Larry, I’ve been trying to reach you for a week! Don’t you ever check your email? Whatever. Listen, I’ve got something for you. You have a pen or something? Call this number and talk to Dr. Dawes. He’s expecting your call. He’s looking for a professional boanthropist.” He gave the number to Larry, repeated the information and hung up before Larry could ask any details.
Larry sat down in front of his computer and checked his email. There was nothing from the employment office. He scanned down his recent new mail and clicked the SPAM button every time he came across a Canadian Pharmacy ad. Suddenly a thought hit him and he clicked on the SPAM folder. Inside was a collection of emails with the words PHARMACY and OFFER and VIAGRA in the subject line. Also in the SPAM folder was a collection of emails with the words JOB OFFER and CALL ME in the subject line. Whoops.
Larry picked up the phone and called the number written on his hand. The phone rang exactly once before a woman’s voice announced, “PsychologicalServicesCenterhowcanIdirectyourcall.”
Larry gave Dr. Dawes name and he was put on hold. A moment later he was put on the line with a man who introduced himself as Dr. David Dawes. Dr. Dawes asked Larry if he was, indeed, a boanthropist. Larry was about to ask what a boanthropist was, but his eyes caught the pile of unopened bills. “Yes,” he said and Dr. Dawes, delighted, asked him to come in the following morning.
***
The glass door opened and the woman asked to the room, “Lawrence Gentoo?”
Larry put down the journal he was reading and stood up. He silently walked to the door and followed the woman into a long hallway. They walked and walked, turning corners, passing doors and staircases. They finally reached the end of the hallway and stopped at a large door marked EXIT. The woman pushed on the door handle and Larry was introduced to a beautiful expanse of lush, green grass on a rolling hill.
“Make yourself at home,” chirped the woman and closed the door behind her, leaving Larry alone with his meadow. He looked around, but could find no landmarks or machinery, nor any other reason for him to be here. He turned to the large, brick building and reached for the door before realizing there was no handle. He looked up the wall and saw no windows. He looked to his left and saw a large, barbed wire fence leading away from the end of the building and off into the distance. He looked to the right and saw the same thing.
Larry leaned against the wall, cooled by the shade of the building, and waited. As the day went on the sun moved away from the building and directly above, leaving no shade to hide in. Larry began to sweat in the sun. He tried banging on the door a couple times, but nobody seemed to hear him. Larry looked at his watch, only to realize he had forgotten to wear one today. Frustrated and hot, he peeled off his shirt, shoes and socks and began to wander the area. The sun felt good on his face, actually. The grass was cool and soft on his feet and it tickled his ankles. He lied down on the grass and let its coolness relax him. He fell asleep, smiling.
He woke up slowly, refreshed but disoriented. Yawning, he looked up to the sky. The sun had returned to hiding behind the brick wall from which he had emerged…when? Judging from the sky, he had slept through all of yesterday and last night. He estimated it was 5:00 or 6:00 AM. He looked around, but still saw no signs of human life. Flies buzzed lazily by his head and he absently waved them away. He stood up and ambled toward the door. As he got closer, he noticed two long buckets against the wall. One of them was filled with clear water and the other, corn and other grains on a bed of hay. He bent down to sniff the water. It smelled sweet and clean. He looked around, but still saw no one. He dipped his hand into the water and brought it to his mouth. He slurped and lapped at the water cupped in his hand, which suddenly made him extremely thirsty. He knelt down, glanced around self-consciously and put his face into the water. He drank greedily. When he had had his fill, he looked at the other bucket. He reached in, grabbed a hunk of corn, smelled it and began to eat. He continued to eat his corn as he wandered the grounds. He approached the edge of the building and peered over the barbed-wire fence. More grassy land, though slightly less lush. When his corn had been stripped of all its edibles, he looked stupidly around for a trash can. Finding none, he tossed it over the fence and ambled back to the buckets. He grabbed another cob and walked the other direction, to the other fence. Looking over that fence revealed nothing other than more browning grass as far as the eye could see. Larry tossed his second corn and went back for another drink.
By midday, he had shed all of his clothes. The sensation of the warm sun and cool grass on his body had overpowered any sense of shame he might have had. Besides, there was nobody around. He spent his second day between the two buckets, alternating between handfuls of dry grains and dunking his head in the water. He thought about banging on the door again. After all, someone had obviously been here to supply him with food and water; they must be entering and exiting somehow. He thought of it, yes. He thought of leaving the field, of driving back home, of sitting in his dark apartment, wondering how he was going to pay his bills. He thought of these things as he munched on his barley and stared into the bright blue sky. He slept.
***
He awoke to find himself standing up in the middle of the meadow. He lost his balance as he came to, not expecting to find himself positioned so. He looked up at the sky and saw the sun. He tried to determine the time based on the sun’s position, but found it too difficult. Anyway, he didn’t really care. He lumbered lazily to the buckets and found them to be refreshed. The water was a little dirty, but still totally drinkable. The bucket of grains had a few carrots cut up into it and some other vegetable he couldn’t identify. He ate lazily and then wandered into the distance a bit. He sat, staring at the ground. He realized he was still chewing. The carrots and barley sat in his mouth, an oatmeal-like slurry. He swallowed and picked at the grass as he thought about nothing in particular. A short while later he realized he was chewing on a mouthful of grass, with no memory of how it got there. He stopped chewing and allowed himself to taste it. It was kind of sweet and juicy. With a mental shrug, he continued to chew.
***
Larry was eating out of the food bucket. His long beard had bits of grains and seeds tangled in it. His palms and knees were green with grass stain. He shook his head impatiently as large flies buzzed incessantly around him. He had no memory of how he had come to this place, nor had he any memory of his life before this place.
The door opened, making a high, chittering sound. The tall person came out of it with his long white skin flapping around him. There was another person with him, but his skin was different. It had many colors. The white skinned man disappeared inside the door. The color skinned man looked at Larry. Larry moaned it him, open mouthed, and returned to his food bucket.
The glass window slid open and the woman behind it called out, “Lawrence Gentoo!”
Larry put down the magazine he was reading and stood up. He walked to the door and nodded at the woman in the window as he passed by. The man at the desk looked tired. He was balding and looked like he hadn’t shaved or slept well in several days. Larry sat down in the worn chair across from the man’s desk.
“Gimme a minute,” said the man, without looking up at Larry. Larry sat patiently as the man shuffled some papers around, making the occasional mark on them as he filed them away. Larry stared intently out the small window. Finally he turned to his computer and clicked on the mouse.
“Lawrence Gentoo?” the man asked, scrolling him mouse lazily on his desk.
“Larry, yes,” he replied.
“Larry,” the man repeated, still looking at the computer monitor. “Well, Larry, I really don’t have anything for you this week. I mean, I’m looking at your file here and I gotta say, you’re not making it easy for yourself. I mean, I can set you up with a law office-“
Larry’s back straightened slightly.
“-but they need someone to organize files…which are below street level and I can see that’s not going to work for you.”
Larry slumped back in his seat.
“Look, Larry,” the man behind the desk sighed, taking his glasses off, “I’m here to help you. But you gotta help me. I can get you any number of temp jobs, but I just can’t guarantee a window for you.”
“I have claustrophobia, Mr. Baumgarten,” Larry said with a tinge of whininess as he instinctively looked out the window again, “You put me in a room with no windows and I’ll walk right out. I can’t help it.”
Mr. Baumgarten looked pityingly at Larry.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah. Well, look, give me your email address and I’ll send you the first thing that comes across my desk that will suit your…situation, OK?” He tore off a page from his yellow pad and pushed it across the desk to Larry. Larry pulled a pencil from the cup on the desk, wrote down his email address, thanked Mr. Baumgarten and went home.
Larry checked his email frequently, but nothing from the temp office came. He called the office a few times to make sure he hadn’t missed any messages from Mr. Baumgarten, but he had not. Larry’s savings were starting to run dry. The bills kept coming. He was going to have to think of something fast.
***
Larry was sitting in his kitchen, staring out the window, when the phone rang. Larry stared at it passively as it rang. He was sure he had stopped paying the phone bill, besides, who really called him anyway? After the fourth ring, he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. It took him a moment to remember what to do next in this situation.
“Hello?” he finally croaked.
“Larry Gentoo?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Lawrence, yes,” he replied.
“Lawry, it’s Russ Baumgarten….from the employment bureau..”
“Hello,” Larry replied. He felt nervous for some reason. He tried frantically to remember what he was supposed to have done that he didn’t.
“Larry, I’ve been trying to reach you for a week! Don’t you ever check your email? Whatever. Listen, I’ve got something for you. You have a pen or something? Call this number and talk to Dr. Dawes. He’s expecting your call. He’s looking for a professional boanthropist.” He gave the number to Larry, repeated the information and hung up before Larry could ask any details.
Larry sat down in front of his computer and checked his email. There was nothing from the employment office. He scanned down his recent new mail and clicked the SPAM button every time he came across a Canadian Pharmacy ad. Suddenly a thought hit him and he clicked on the SPAM folder. Inside was a collection of emails with the words PHARMACY and OFFER and VIAGRA in the subject line. Also in the SPAM folder was a collection of emails with the words JOB OFFER and CALL ME in the subject line. Whoops.
Larry picked up the phone and called the number written on his hand. The phone rang exactly once before a woman’s voice announced, “PsychologicalServicesCenterhowcanIdirectyourcall.”
Larry gave Dr. Dawes name and he was put on hold. A moment later he was put on the line with a man who introduced himself as Dr. David Dawes. Dr. Dawes asked Larry if he was, indeed, a boanthropist. Larry was about to ask what a boanthropist was, but his eyes caught the pile of unopened bills. “Yes,” he said and Dr. Dawes, delighted, asked him to come in the following morning.
***
The glass door opened and the woman asked to the room, “Lawrence Gentoo?”
Larry put down the journal he was reading and stood up. He silently walked to the door and followed the woman into a long hallway. They walked and walked, turning corners, passing doors and staircases. They finally reached the end of the hallway and stopped at a large door marked EXIT. The woman pushed on the door handle and Larry was introduced to a beautiful expanse of lush, green grass on a rolling hill.
“Make yourself at home,” chirped the woman and closed the door behind her, leaving Larry alone with his meadow. He looked around, but could find no landmarks or machinery, nor any other reason for him to be here. He turned to the large, brick building and reached for the door before realizing there was no handle. He looked up the wall and saw no windows. He looked to his left and saw a large, barbed wire fence leading away from the end of the building and off into the distance. He looked to the right and saw the same thing.
Larry leaned against the wall, cooled by the shade of the building, and waited. As the day went on the sun moved away from the building and directly above, leaving no shade to hide in. Larry began to sweat in the sun. He tried banging on the door a couple times, but nobody seemed to hear him. Larry looked at his watch, only to realize he had forgotten to wear one today. Frustrated and hot, he peeled off his shirt, shoes and socks and began to wander the area. The sun felt good on his face, actually. The grass was cool and soft on his feet and it tickled his ankles. He lied down on the grass and let its coolness relax him. He fell asleep, smiling.
He woke up slowly, refreshed but disoriented. Yawning, he looked up to the sky. The sun had returned to hiding behind the brick wall from which he had emerged…when? Judging from the sky, he had slept through all of yesterday and last night. He estimated it was 5:00 or 6:00 AM. He looked around, but still saw no signs of human life. Flies buzzed lazily by his head and he absently waved them away. He stood up and ambled toward the door. As he got closer, he noticed two long buckets against the wall. One of them was filled with clear water and the other, corn and other grains on a bed of hay. He bent down to sniff the water. It smelled sweet and clean. He looked around, but still saw no one. He dipped his hand into the water and brought it to his mouth. He slurped and lapped at the water cupped in his hand, which suddenly made him extremely thirsty. He knelt down, glanced around self-consciously and put his face into the water. He drank greedily. When he had had his fill, he looked at the other bucket. He reached in, grabbed a hunk of corn, smelled it and began to eat. He continued to eat his corn as he wandered the grounds. He approached the edge of the building and peered over the barbed-wire fence. More grassy land, though slightly less lush. When his corn had been stripped of all its edibles, he looked stupidly around for a trash can. Finding none, he tossed it over the fence and ambled back to the buckets. He grabbed another cob and walked the other direction, to the other fence. Looking over that fence revealed nothing other than more browning grass as far as the eye could see. Larry tossed his second corn and went back for another drink.
By midday, he had shed all of his clothes. The sensation of the warm sun and cool grass on his body had overpowered any sense of shame he might have had. Besides, there was nobody around. He spent his second day between the two buckets, alternating between handfuls of dry grains and dunking his head in the water. He thought about banging on the door again. After all, someone had obviously been here to supply him with food and water; they must be entering and exiting somehow. He thought of it, yes. He thought of leaving the field, of driving back home, of sitting in his dark apartment, wondering how he was going to pay his bills. He thought of these things as he munched on his barley and stared into the bright blue sky. He slept.
***
He awoke to find himself standing up in the middle of the meadow. He lost his balance as he came to, not expecting to find himself positioned so. He looked up at the sky and saw the sun. He tried to determine the time based on the sun’s position, but found it too difficult. Anyway, he didn’t really care. He lumbered lazily to the buckets and found them to be refreshed. The water was a little dirty, but still totally drinkable. The bucket of grains had a few carrots cut up into it and some other vegetable he couldn’t identify. He ate lazily and then wandered into the distance a bit. He sat, staring at the ground. He realized he was still chewing. The carrots and barley sat in his mouth, an oatmeal-like slurry. He swallowed and picked at the grass as he thought about nothing in particular. A short while later he realized he was chewing on a mouthful of grass, with no memory of how it got there. He stopped chewing and allowed himself to taste it. It was kind of sweet and juicy. With a mental shrug, he continued to chew.
***
Larry was eating out of the food bucket. His long beard had bits of grains and seeds tangled in it. His palms and knees were green with grass stain. He shook his head impatiently as large flies buzzed incessantly around him. He had no memory of how he had come to this place, nor had he any memory of his life before this place.
The door opened, making a high, chittering sound. The tall person came out of it with his long white skin flapping around him. There was another person with him, but his skin was different. It had many colors. The white skinned man disappeared inside the door. The color skinned man looked at Larry. Larry moaned it him, open mouthed, and returned to his food bucket.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Artist's conundrum
The library is going to show some of my photographs in their gallery throughout the month of Janury. I asked them if they'd let me display my Imaginary Portraits paintings and they said yes. Now, they also asked me to put prices on everything and give the library 15% of whatever I take in. For the photographs, I don't care at all! It's all digital printsso I'm never actually losing anything; I can print infinite copies of the photos. But the idea of handing over one of my paintings is a different story. I made them just for my own artistic expression. I think they look great on my wall and I'm proud of them. I could always replicate them to an extent, but they're truly one of a kind because of the imperfections and unpredictability of watercolor and my own unprofessional hand.
I can't even fathom Dali painting something like Persistence of Memory and then selling it. But I guess that's what makes a professional artist. I never set out to be a professional artist, but the idea of someone I don't know looking at my work and saying "I'll pay you for the privilege of owing that " is pretty damn enticing.
So what do I do? Sell my paintings for a high enough price that most people won't buy it but those who do give me enough to assuage my personal attachment? Do I sell them for a reasonable amount to get my work out there and try to build a reputation? Do I not sell them at all?
Am I such a true artist that I created the paintings for the sole purpose of creating? Well, yeah. Does that make me more of artist than one who lives solely from selling their art? These are questions I never thought I'd ask.
I'd be grateful for any advice anyone has to offer.
The library is going to show some of my photographs in their gallery throughout the month of Janury. I asked them if they'd let me display my Imaginary Portraits paintings and they said yes. Now, they also asked me to put prices on everything and give the library 15% of whatever I take in. For the photographs, I don't care at all! It's all digital printsso I'm never actually losing anything; I can print infinite copies of the photos. But the idea of handing over one of my paintings is a different story. I made them just for my own artistic expression. I think they look great on my wall and I'm proud of them. I could always replicate them to an extent, but they're truly one of a kind because of the imperfections and unpredictability of watercolor and my own unprofessional hand.
I can't even fathom Dali painting something like Persistence of Memory and then selling it. But I guess that's what makes a professional artist. I never set out to be a professional artist, but the idea of someone I don't know looking at my work and saying "I'll pay you for the privilege of owing that " is pretty damn enticing.
So what do I do? Sell my paintings for a high enough price that most people won't buy it but those who do give me enough to assuage my personal attachment? Do I sell them for a reasonable amount to get my work out there and try to build a reputation? Do I not sell them at all?
Am I such a true artist that I created the paintings for the sole purpose of creating? Well, yeah. Does that make me more of artist than one who lives solely from selling their art? These are questions I never thought I'd ask.
I'd be grateful for any advice anyone has to offer.
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