Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like
Today at The Housewife, fiction in black and white.
Of The Artist
For the first morning since I arrived, the mist has withdrawn. It’s clear enough for me to Caesarean my way out of my tent and see to the edge of this rocky outcrop I’ve ended up perched upon. The stone’s been blasted bare since before I was born, rigor mortis to the touch when I’m not on the blanket I brought up here. Out from under what I call cover are my easels, bound to the ground with rope and pitons, to stop wind or gravity stealing them from me. My work kept dry by tarp that I rush to get off, can’t waste the clarity. Breakfast will have to be lunch, or dinner depending on how long I’m able to work.
I used to get told that my pictures were the wrong way round, that they were supposed to be wider than they were…
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