An email, from my aunt, posted for you to enjoy.
Sooooo….. last night, after Fred [their friend and painter] has slurped up more than half of the posole and the salad, he returns to getting the first coat of the green on the wall while fielding repetitive calls from his family wondering just where the hell is the hamburger he was going to bring home from the grocery for their supper. It is late and we are all a bit tired. I scoot him out the door, situating the gallon of black paint on top of his tarp which rests on top of his tool basket. Phew! … gone…Oh wait… he left his brushes…. Frrrrr-edddddd …. but he had already realized his forgetfulness and turning to return to the house, the black paint slides off the tarp and emptys… splash…. right in the middle of the brick driveway. “Ut oh…. I spilled the paint.” (!!!!!You gotta be fucking kidding me!!!!) and run poste haste to the studio where I do my familiar bellow… Tommmmmmmm [my uncle] gotta come quick. You know it was about 13 degrees outside when we begin this flurry of activity to find lights, extension cords, the wheel barrow, a source of sand. I am on the hot water bucket brigade. Meanwhile Frrrrr-eddd, who I have now rechristened Norton, is tracking through the paint so his foot prints are starting to resemble a dance pattern for Flight of the Bumble Bee. I am going in circles, scrubbing vigorously at the foot prints but the water is freezing and now we are trying to navigate on a sheet of ice. The routine defines itself: Dump sand, do the painter’s shuffle, scoop up sand, get more sand. Then comes the water: pour, scrub, sweep, repeat. About an hour later, squinting through the dark to see if we have gotten it all up we unanimously agree that whatever remains will be classified as patina… which translates into dodging another major fuck-up and pretending it was suppose to be that way.
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More from her (writing about her and my uncles’ art creations) here.
