And Numberless Blades of Grass

 

The editor looked at the painting, which showed an astronaut walking toward a spaceship, with a trail of discarded objects behind him, representing parts of his life which he had discarded on his way towards his goal: a brightly-colored ball, a book of poetry, an Army rifle.

“I like it, but . . . put some grass on the ground, so it doesn’t look like just a Surrealist abstraction.”

I sputtered, “But it is a Surrealist abstraction!”

He glared at me.

“I hate Surrealism. Put some grass on it.”

I sighed, took the painting back, closed it in its cover and left. I took the train home, fuming, trying to concentrate on my book, thinking about grass.

Back at home, I set the painting on my easel and began adding grass to the painting. He wanted grass, okay, I’d give him grass. I painted blade after blade after blade, turning the elegant surreal landscape I had created into a grassy plain – which was plenty surreal itself, as I recalled from having crossed it hitchhiking years before. Man, there was a lot of it. A surreal amount, one might say.

I painted grass and I painted grass, first around the objects and the astronaut’s feet anf disturbed grass in a trail behind him. Then I spread the grass out to the sides, left and right, into the distance. Hours passed, and I painted grass until my hand ached, and I thought I might have permanently used up my brain’s grass-painting chemicals, but I painted me some grass.

I brought the painting in the next day. The editor liked it. He bought it. I was able to bring home a load of groceries, and pay the electric bill.

Grass….

 

The Magic Eight-Ball says: "It's work."

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