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The Painting That Thought it Could Fly In the HOV lane, careening south on the 51 faster than safe, I see the lid of a shoebox? A soda flat? A “something” freeing itself from my truck-bed’s confines. No shoulder to stop on, I wing it downtown to reclaim art passed its prime at a public venue. After feeding a parking meter, I look with horror at my empty truck liner. Where is the painting so near to completion just earlier nestled in my truck? The one in colors of Midwestern ponds with snapping turtles, the water showing ultramarine, Prussian blue, and recalling floating scum of summers past? The truth clutches my stomach—the disappearing flutter in the rear view mirror! Nothing else but to Indy Speedway for my wayward child, lost on the 51 southbound. I make dead-end calls to close friends hoping to silence the building dread. Will DPS fine me for littering or for endangering the lives of the motoring public with flying canvas? I drive north to the 32nd Street exit and hightail it back south, scanning for remains. This is what happens when I don’t play it safe and tie Life down. This is what happens when you drive like a madwoman. This is what happens when deadlines are looming and I feel ahead of the game. This is Life happening. There were thoughts in my head, blinding my eyes, putting lead into my foot. I didn’t say this to the policeman who stopped by to visit the crazy woman in the southbound HOV lane. I was a toreador, thinking I could safely rescue my “child” from the roadbed, waving a red t-shirt. “The tire sounded flat, a painting flew away without warning, and I thought this was the shoulder of the highway.” These words bought me an out with only a stern look that said “damn lucky”. The motor cop drove off to the next blip on his Monday horizon, his motorcycle’s exhaust in my nose. Heeding his parting advice, I exited and drove back to the gore zone near the dying painting. I took a Kodak of its ripped torso to remember it by. The coup de grace was a semi truck shattering the remaining support bars. The drive back downtown was quiet. The rescued canvas curled up inside the back seat like unsorted thoughts. I was digesting the reality of having faced freeway traffic on foot, in the Arizona afternoon. I never thought to be afraid of the noise, the speed, the closeness of hurtling metal. I focused and acted. There was no doubt or delay. I think I was gifted another turn of the wheel. The remainder of daylight was spent crafting another, smaller support for the surviving canvas. Blues, greens and yellows still float lazily across its face. Judith Jurewicz |