Alberta’s exuberant discovery of her ability to transform a photograph into a painting was soon tempered by Buster’s usual skeptical expertise.
Three hours later, Buster said” Okay, forget everything else. Let me put it this way,” He leaned forward:
“It’s not a painting.”
It was just this sort of linear, yet decorative logic that never failed to give Alberta pause. She hid a small smile of admiration by bending studiously over her laptop and squinting at its current photo population. Recently, Alberta had resolved to develop and maintain a muscular and nimble brain via the mastery of chess – okay, checkers , or Battleship… maybe Clue – and to cut down on free verse, especially at night.
“Some of my photos are clearly nomadic and never bother to let me know when they’re in residence,” Allberta mumbled furiously to herself, while practically whacking the keyboard.
“Oh that’s nice. That’s a nice way to recruit volunteers for Painting’s Great Leap Forward ” said Buster, looking over Alberta’s shoulder.
“Aren’t you going to do another one?” he added casually.
Buster absently ate a HoHo with bean sprouts and watched
as Alberta turned another of her photos into a painting. Into
what she just felt like calling a painting.
“Let whatever I call them be a poem,” she said.
Buster was quiet for a long time.
“I just really, really miss Che Guevara,” he said.
Alberta put an arm around her friend and instinctively looked at the clock. It was twelve, but neither of them knew whether it was noon or midnight.