Makin' you laugh

First, my apologies for the background to the text in this entry. I did something that I don't know how to undo. But I'll get on with it. 

T. Webster Armstrong, whose comments I have enjoyed on Louise's blog and occasionally on mine, and who writes a fine blog herself, just gave me a nudge: "The Storm's gone past," a reference to the horse in my last blog, "and we love your art. Come on,. give us a new post of art or literature." 

Thank you, T. Webster. I have written barely a word since my bout with hypnotism in Las Vegas, and I crowed at the time that it had loosened me up, taken down the barriers, thrown out the rules. And now I find that the freedom of that moment has evaporated, and that I'm back to my old anal-retentive, perfectionist self. So I'm putting up this piece that is almost finished but not quite. It has passed scrutiny with Marian, my teacher, but that was in an earlier state. 

So here's the thing: this picture comes from a photo of my shy but witty Grandson. Not the picture you see, but the original photograph. I had set up a little studio downstairs on Thanksgiving and herded the family, one by one, in front of my backdrop. Almost everyone was in a "let's get it over with mood," but this grandson carried a piece of food into the basement and put it to his mouth as I shot the picture. 

Dammit Grandson. I have struggled with your hand to your mouth for weeks now. And late last night it hit me that I could reposition your arm and hand in Photoshop. And then in an aha moment, which the family may or may not appreciate (I really don't care at this point), I put a microphone in your hand. You're now singing with your dancing bodies all over the canvas. You don't sing? You don't dance? You've never held a mike? Pity. I don't care, because this is my piece of art about you. Future generations will say, "Hey, my great grandfather was a singer and dancer." If you want to create your own piece of art about yourself, go for it. Meantime, mine goes down in history. 

I learned that from Louise. Our sons would yell that her stories about them are lies. "Mom's a liar," they'd wail. Louise's reply: "If you don't like the way I wrote the story, write it yourself." Until a new generation of writers has begun emerging in the family, that was a safe thing to say. 

In any case, dear Grandson, will undergo some revisions. Not many. But hey, here he is. Here's the imperfect Grandson. In all his glory, looking every bit NOT like the somewhat shy person he is--at least when I'm around. Love you. 

Thanks, T. Webster Armstrong.