Portrait of the Artist
I’ve had an argument with my father. He can be a cantankerous old fossil at times—a stout man with a florid face, polishing the furniture and making everything just so.
At my suggestion, the museum held an exhibition of his work: a collection of sculpture, his mature graphic work. His photomontages are powerful antiwar images. I do not believe he gave the industry a fair shake. He was livid at being left out. There was a heated exchange. “I can manage alone, thanks all the same.”
Great art is concerned with moral imperfections. We announce our failures by warring against ourselves and others. Ultimately he has only himself to blame. He is drinking far too much these days. Even Lawrence finally lost patience with him. At his age, I guess he doesn’t frighten any more.
I went for a long walk. Maybe I won’t go back. The park is beautiful at this time of year.