few
times because it was hurting back near his ears from laughing so
much.
They calmly walked out from behind the wall
toward Tracy’s desk.
“Enjoy the paintings, boys?” Tracy
smiled.
Both boys nodded, not trusting themselves to
speak.
“Don’t forget this paper,” and Tracy handed
them one of the red papers.
Emery grabbed it and followed Philip back
into the mall.
Two
From the back seat, as they drove home, the
boys told Philip’s dad about their trip to the art gallery.
Philip’s father listened and then asked, “How
do you know your art teacher painted those paintings?”
“It says so on this paper the lady gave us,”
said Philip. “Her name is right up top.”
“What else does it say about her?”
Philip read. “Ms. Trinetti’s work
ex-em-pli-fies...” Philip smiled when his father did not correct
him. “...the Neo-Classic approach to Post-Modernism. Her...” Philip
paused and spelled out the next word. “f-a-c-i-l-e.”
“Facile,” his father pronounced. “It means
sort of easy and relaxed.”
“The dancing pickles looked relaxed, all
right,” said Emery, and he and Philip leaned into each other,
laughing.
Philip continued. “Her facile use of comedy
and tragedy underlines perfectly the d-i-c-h-o-t-o-m-y.”
“Dichotomy,” said Philip’s father. “It means
a split.”
“Yeah, a banana split,” said Emery, and the
boys dissolved into laughter again.
Finally, Philip read on. “...dichotomy
between the yin and the yang of life’s struggle.” Philip looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“Mmmm, read a little more,” his father
suggested.
“She elevates and ex-pli-cates...?”
“That means explains.”
“She elevates and explicates the crash and
fall of the or-gan-ic and the inorganic in the flows and eddies of
existence. Dad, what is this talking about?”
Philip’s father laughed. “I can explain the
words, but I don’t have the slightest idea what it’s talking about.
Sounds like pickles and feet and bananas are being asked to do an
awful lot. And you say she was asking three thousand five hundred
dollars for each painting?”
“Yep. Says so right here,” said Philip,
stretching the paper toward his father.
“I’ll look at it later.” He smiled and gave a
short cough. “Well, I wouldn’t let on, if I were you, that you saw
her work and didn’t think too highly of it.”
In a very serious voice Emery said, “I didn’t
like her feet or her eyes so much, but I thought quite highly of
her pickles and bananas.” And off the boys went into spasms of
laughter.
“What’s the red paper you two goofballs
picked up?” said Philip’s father.
Philip looked around the back seat. “Where is
it, Emery? Oh, I see it. On the floor, there. Give me.”
Philip took the paper from Emery and read it.
“It’s about a contest. An art contest the gallery is running in
neighborhood schools. Hey, Ms. Trinetti is one of the judges.”
“You guys going to enter? You made fun of
pickles and feet. Do better and show Ms. Trinetti what art should
be.”
Philip and Emery turned to each other.
“You two did well in the poster contest that
Walk-Mor Shoes held.”
Walk-Mor Shoes was a store in the same mall.
Philip had won the contest and Emery had placed second.
“Yeah,” said Philip. “Why not? Want to,
Emery?”
“What’s it say to do?”
“It says to contribute one work of art—a
painting, a collage, an installation. What’s an installation,
Dad?”
Philip’s father’s shoulders went up and down.
“I guess it’s something that isn’t either a painting or a collage.
Art can be practically anything. You should go talk to Mr. Conway,
that old fellow the next street over.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Philip. “He does paintings.
He’s nice. Remember, we bumped into him in the arts and crafts
store when we had to buy that stuff for Ms. Trinetti’s class? Did
you ever see any of his paintings, Dad?”
Philip’s father shook his
times because it was hurting back near his ears from laughing so
much.
They calmly walked out from behind the wall
toward Tracy’s desk.
“Enjoy the paintings, boys?” Tracy
smiled.
Both boys nodded, not trusting themselves to
speak.
“Don’t forget this paper,” and Tracy handed
them one of the red papers.
Emery grabbed it and followed Philip back
into the mall.
Two
From the back seat, as they drove home, the
boys told Philip’s dad about their trip to the art gallery.
Philip’s father listened and then asked, “How
do you know your art teacher painted those paintings?”
“It says so on this paper the lady gave us,”
said Philip. “Her name is right up top.”
“What else does it say about her?”
Philip read. “Ms. Trinetti’s work
ex-em-pli-fies...” Philip smiled when his father did not correct
him. “...the Neo-Classic approach to Post-Modernism. Her...” Philip
paused and spelled out the next word. “f-a-c-i-l-e.”
“Facile,” his father pronounced. “It means
sort of easy and relaxed.”
“The dancing pickles looked relaxed, all
right,” said Emery, and he and Philip leaned into each other,
laughing.
Philip continued. “Her facile use of comedy
and tragedy underlines perfectly the d-i-c-h-o-t-o-m-y.”
“Dichotomy,” said Philip’s father. “It means
a split.”
“Yeah, a banana split,” said Emery, and the
boys dissolved into laughter again.
Finally, Philip read on. “...dichotomy
between the yin and the yang of life’s struggle.” Philip looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“Mmmm, read a little more,” his father
suggested.
“She elevates and ex-pli-cates...?”
“That means explains.”
“She elevates and explicates the crash and
fall of the or-gan-ic and the inorganic in the flows and eddies of
existence. Dad, what is this talking about?”
Philip’s father laughed. “I can explain the
words, but I don’t have the slightest idea what it’s talking about.
Sounds like pickles and feet and bananas are being asked to do an
awful lot. And you say she was asking three thousand five hundred
dollars for each painting?”
“Yep. Says so right here,” said Philip,
stretching the paper toward his father.
“I’ll look at it later.” He smiled and gave a
short cough. “Well, I wouldn’t let on, if I were you, that you saw
her work and didn’t think too highly of it.”
In a very serious voice Emery said, “I didn’t
like her feet or her eyes so much, but I thought quite highly of
her pickles and bananas.” And off the boys went into spasms of
laughter.
“What’s the red paper you two goofballs
picked up?” said Philip’s father.
Philip looked around the back seat. “Where is
it, Emery? Oh, I see it. On the floor, there. Give me.”
Philip took the paper from Emery and read it.
“It’s about a contest. An art contest the gallery is running in
neighborhood schools. Hey, Ms. Trinetti is one of the judges.”
“You guys going to enter? You made fun of
pickles and feet. Do better and show Ms. Trinetti what art should
be.”
Philip and Emery turned to each other.
“You two did well in the poster contest that
Walk-Mor Shoes held.”
Walk-Mor Shoes was a store in the same mall.
Philip had won the contest and Emery had placed second.
“Yeah,” said Philip. “Why not? Want to,
Emery?”
“What’s it say to do?”
“It says to contribute one work of art—a
painting, a collage, an installation. What’s an installation,
Dad?”
Philip’s father’s shoulders went up and down.
“I guess it’s something that isn’t either a painting or a collage.
Art can be practically anything. You should go talk to Mr. Conway,
that old fellow the next street over.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Philip. “He does paintings.
He’s nice. Remember, we bumped into him in the arts and crafts
store when we had to buy that stuff for Ms. Trinetti’s class? Did
you ever see any of his paintings, Dad?”
Philip’s father shook his
Similar Books
