It looks like the sand dunes, I say.
It does kinda look like the Southern Utah red rock, doesn’t it? says Andrew.
We stay sitting there at the end of the pier for upwards of half an hour. Night sets in. A gas generator buzzes light brightly over the scene. Our sunset talk has spurred us into a discussion regarding modern art.
I’m not so much a fan of it, says Andrew.
He, I’Lill, and Musette are more into fine art.
Like Caravaggio, says Musette.
We talk about the trip we took with my parents to MoMA.
My dad was not a fan of the Yoko Ono stuff, I say. There is this display right when you walk in with just a single green apple on it. A security guard was standing watch. My dad was not impressed.
I would like to see Starry Night, he says.
I tell him that it was nice.
You never can tell how big those things are until you see them in person. I went to a Salvador Dali exhibit once and was amazed to find some of the stuff merely postcard size.
I don’t tell them about the painting I made on the back of a Raisin Bran box. Andrew is the visual artist of the family. He is carrying a neon green tube around connected to his backpack for carrying canvases in. Every time we’re waiting for a train he pulls out his little sketchbook and works on what he calls character studies.
Musette and I’Lill have made it a common ground to talk upon our painful artistic endeavors as they like to call them. Apparently Andrew never has time to work on his art because of the job that he works.
I’Lill is always trying to get him to quit.
It’s tough finding what I want to work on when I find the time to work on it, says Andrew. I’ve got this one project that I started while in college that I’ve been playing around with recently.
That’s good, that’s good, I tell him. You know, I find with art that once you sit down and start doing it it just starts flowing out of you. It’s all about sitting down and doing it. Or standing.
Musette is not convinced. Her and I’Lill chat on about this idea that their men just don’t have that passion that they fell in love with. Gone are the big dreams. Gone the visions of grandeur. Replaced with delusionary excuses.
I try to tell her otherwise but it just gets to feeling ridiculous trying to convince her of these things. She wants results but I can’t show them to her.
It takes time, sweetheart.
She wants cash. Something she can see.
I believe in you I just don’t believe in what you’re doing.
Babe, I’m doing my best.