ED, 2014, A Portrait of a Blond, acrylic on mylar, 24x37
She was at the Melrose Park office again.
Doctor’s face glowed in the dusty light of antiquated lamp in the corner. “ I have doubts if it has any sense at all,”
she said. “You see, I want to paint, but feel like I lack the audience. I
mean, I paint, but I feel guilty, because what is the meaning of doing
something that nobody asks you to?"
Doctor cleared his throat, “It must have something to do with your father,” he said. “What?” “ You seem
to not to notice boundaries between yourself and those who surround you… Women
are fluid; men are all about boundaries. It is your father’s ingredient that I
don’t see here,” he explained. She sighed. The bluish puddle in the corner of the rug trembled again with another drop penetrating its thick surface. When she just stepped into the office, she noticed the puddle
but didn’t pay much attention. It was raining outside, and she assumed that the
isolation in the glass slide door leading to the garden was leaking. She forgot
about it until now. The sleeve of doctor's white shirt was wet.
“I say, doctor, you are dripping,” she said. Doctor corrected his
spectacles with the right hand and glanced at the puddle sideways. He raised his brows and wiggled in the armchair. His right hand crawled towards the left hand that looked a bit sleepy. When the right hand got
close enough, the left hand woke up and rose from its rest. The right hand carefully picked the edge of the latex glove with the
thumb and the index finger and pulled it up towards the shirt calf. The calf button was undone. Doctor’s eyes followed
his right hand as it fastened the button and tucked the glove under the calf squeezing in the process yet another drop of the jellylike substance....
