“Of course she does,” Stavros said. “I looked her up. They haven’t found any of them,” She didn’t want to say aloud what she could all too easily imagine: she would die, and they would dismantle that tiny apartment, and throw the canvases finished and unfinished into the trash. She knew the ones who’d nearly missed that: Alice Neel, whose apartment grew crowded by the decade with the canvases that no one ever saw, because no one was going to show the work of a woman artist who painted her neighbors in Spanish Harlem. Not in the decades when they were all busy Avoiding the Subject – that’s how she saw the clinging to abstraction – while the world burned around them.
Six Sentence Sunday isn’t officially happening this Sunday (see this post for why not) but I’m in the habit so I thought I’d post anyway.