He posted it on Instagram. I don’t know why. Perhaps he felt it was the best way to crowdfund. His daughter has cancer again. Poor love. Poor loves. It must be devastating. Death. Death is everywhere. Francoise Hardy died. And I drew in an ex-funeral home. I didn’t know what I’d find. I expect black shadows and gloom. It was gloomy, and dusty and dirty. Little remains. The two chapels were extraordinary. It was hard to draw in there. I didn’t really do it justice. Do I ever?
She told me that her ex-staff member felt nervous talking to me. Not a crush, as such, but awe. I don’t know what to do with that information except to protest that I am nothing. Not really. Nothing special. I like her. I see her awkwardness, her crankiness with people when everything isn’t under control. I understand it too well. Should I be touched? I am touched.
