This is a story about Black Francis. He is a white boy I know who wishes he had black skin. I remember smiling when he told me that, and asking why. He said he would play better music if he was black, and he would live in the south. “Oh! Well, you could live in the south, anyway,” I said. “Yeah, but it wouldn’t be the same,” he replied.
I never forget little things. Sometimes, it is just a word or two of a conversation that mean nothing, really. Sometimes it’s a look or the way someone smiled. But, to me it stands out, and I carry it with me for years afterward. Gripping tightly, unable to let go. It’s how I commemorate moments that are now frozen in time.
I’m not going to lie to you. I am not one to keep secrets all that well. Oh sure, I can keep my mouth shut, don’t worry about that. But, sometimes, those little things of yours that I carry with me end up on pages of my art journal or hidden down deep within layers on a canvas. It comes out. It has to.
Everyone has a story. And, it may not always seem it, but I listen deeply to hear what you have to say. I think about conversations long after the words have been spoken or written in an email. I sift through, pick things out, and slip it into my pocket. Carrying it with me; keeping it safe. If you know me, you may find pieces of yourself stuck all over my artwork. Or perhaps woven throughout, if you look closely enough.
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