Never Trust an Interior Designer

Morgan was the kind of twit who paid £2000 for an old Spitfire and £3000 to get it fixed up, chromed, and re-lacquered, so that when he showed up at a client's home the first thing they would see was a car that reminded their genetic memory of the good old days, even if they were too young for the days, or even if they were old enough to know better. The car had to represent more than just a car to his clients: it had to represent style, aspiration, and above all, that nebulous thing called "good taste" which his services promised to render to their house. British cars, he was fond of saying, might be worth diddly on the road, but nobody could fault their looks.

He himself had a spritely look about him: he was lean and reminded people vaguely of Prince Charles. He looked a sight better than that horse-faced member of the royal house, but he walked with the same measured dignity that the prince used on his public perambulations, and always wore a clean suit, carefully matched so as to be unmemorable as possible. You didn't pay to remember him, after all. You paid so that people could remember your house.

It was almost beautiful, how they opened up to him--all in the interest of "finding their style", of course. There were no fronts to put up when they so openly invited him in to plumb their closets, divine their lives. This dent in the wallpaper meant an abusive relationship, that dog meant a merely unhappy one. Putting a new couch in front of the window signified that she was cheating on him; painting a room red meant he was screwing on the side. Men wanted textures, women wanted lines. But above all, they wanted to be better than themselves.

Which they couldn't be, of course, not unless they wanted to rewrite their memories and their lives. But he didn't tell them that--he gave them what they wanted--beautiful things--and didn't return their phone calls when everything came crashing down.

Make Stones Weep

Stones don't cry when they shatter on the ground. The peculiar property of stone-ness means that these inert objects accept the transfer of kinetic energy with a silence that can only be described as stony. The pebbles that come of boulders retain the former properties of the stone--just in smaller pieces, smaller and smaller. At some point, it is said, a stone is no longer a stone. At which point, by definition, it must weep.

And, in doing so, it must gain tears--pain--feeling--soul. So be careful with stones. And be careful with souls. To make stones weep is no hard thing, but to heal a soul requires more than just mortar and brick.

I should probably be panicking

But I'm not. I have another watercolor to start and one more to finish. Next week we're starting the prep work for a party and I have a job interview.

Oddly, I seem to have calmed down about all this. Because, you see, contrary to popular belief about artists, it's all about the plan.