End of life issues
I'm working in the local cafe this morning. My favorite barista, a rasta cycling chick with my name, is organizing a silent auction for an elderly artist with Parkinsons. She was doing some painting at a nearby house and met the neighbor, sitting in a wheelchair surrounded by hundreds of paintings. It's a talented body of work. They (husband, rastachick, cafe owner, and artist) are sitting at the table next to me discussing logistics of selling off her work to support treatment for her illness. She has an unusual, slight slant to her landscapes, as though the lines of perspective are tilted through a different sort of camera lens. Everyone else is doing all the talking: Do you have slides? What did this and that gallery say? How to allocate the proceeds? How to promote the charity to which they're sending 10 percent of the profit? She stares fixedly at the chocolate milk sippy in her shaking hand, head tilted, as if she is working very hard on how to get it to her lips. I want to ask her, How do you feel about parting with your paintings?