By Ben Greenman
from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled
Five young women, all of them carrying paintings that they themselves had painted, entered the Mariscal Museum today, herded the employees into a back room, and escaped with an unknown amount of admiration and approval. Police said that while they could not pinpoint exactly how much praise the women received, they believe that it was “very large.” In one case, the head curator—an older woman who had painted in her youth and then given it up to raise a family that consisted of three sons, each more disappointing than the last, and a husband whose greatest wish seemed to be to tell everyone he met that he worked for a company that bore his name, after which he would pause, then say “…but my name’s McDonald,” then laugh without waiting for anyone else to laugh—pointed at one of the women holding up her painting and sighed audibly. “You already have such an advanced color sense,” she said. “The reds work like blood vessels. They remind me of Kitaj. I see great things ahead for you.” The women were described as short, on average, and talented.
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