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Crisp, my aged companion had very definite opinions as to what constituted art.
She was especially biased against graffiti. She saw it as a desecration.
“They should be made to clean it off,” she said her tone laced with distain.
“I’m sure the artist thought it was his best,” I remarked.
I could sense she was getting hot under the collar.
“My uncle Harvey liked to draw on the walls of the barn back home. He claimed it was artistic license, my Aunt called it obscenity and was forever wandering the farm with a bucket of paint and a brush covering over the images he drew. Uncle Harvey had a fixation on the penis. My Aunt explained her husband had never gotten over his arrival at puberty.”
That memory seemed to return Crisp to a time she’d rather forget as she’d been confronted more than once as a young girl by her Uncle’s art work.