Tiny Imperfect Fiction 18

Carolyn owned the town's best gallery. She was an important central figure in local art.  She coddled and nurtured and give pep talks to talented, fine artists day in and day out. She told them not to worry. She told them she had their back. She told them to make more paintings. She held them to deadlines. She told them she would gather and cultivate collectors for them. She stroked their egos. She soothe their fears. She gathered great crowds for their success. She applauded their sales. She applauded their talent. She applauded their effort. She applauded their avante garde impulses, their commercial failures, their creative courage – she applauded every single thing about every single artist she represented.

On Tuesday, Carolyn called her assistant and told him she would not be coming in to the gallery. 

She sat at her kitchen counter with a cappuccino, a mechanical pencil, a pad of Post-its, a 3 x 5 photograph of her grandfather and Shubert softly in the background.  She drew his portrait, not having sketched anything but maps of squares hung on a wall since she was 19 years old. Carolyn drew 49 Post-it portraits of her grandfather's face. At the end of the day she drew something else in her date book: 

March 30, 2023

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