The black-clad wine-sippers, berets both imaginary and real, read deep meaning into the artist’s representation of footless subjects. A bathrobe-clad hausfrau, feet submerged in mud. An old man in a three-piece suit, rooted in the ocean. Three red-faced kids, all six feet buried in snow. A military man and his bayonet, ankle-deep in freshly-killed enemies.
“No, what he’s saying is we’re paralyzed by situations of our own creation,” a man in a white scarf says in a monotone to his companion.
“No, what I’m saying is I can’t draw feet,” the artist, perched by the cheese, whispers to the Camembert.
LOL! When my dad got sick, I would take notice of other people’s handicap equipment, admiring it. I would get really self concious about it if they caught me staring. I thought, “Oh no! They think I’m staring at them because they’re handicapped.” So then I felt that I needed to say something. Somehow, “Hey nice wheelchair.” didn’t make it any less akward.
Well it sounds like you’ve done your charity work for the week. Now you don’t have to be nice to the disabled for at least seven days!