He looked at Andy as if to press home the point. The writer from the Times looked up from her notebook at Andy with the trace of an apologetic smile, then went back to writing in her jagged, diligent shorthand. J ean and Maureen stood before a painting of a man in a wheelchair. She had asked him where his ideas came from, and he'd told her the story, spying the man on the street as he yelled at a boy to be put in the sun, his Cajun accent, giving him money, the old man's crazy gratitude. Music played in the background, a gong, a flute, a line of synthetic keening, pausing, proceeding, an enigmatic composition, which, if not attentively listened to, could easily fade in the background, receding to some subliminal aurality.
Every line means something.
And there are things I know now, things that have become important to me. I'm interested in painting the black person. How the African beliefs came to America, the Carribean. Your work shows a lot of African sources. I'll take a little kid's work over any of that any day.