trash talk

The wife and I spent the evening at a big-box art store putting in an order for custom frames--some Miro, Klee, and Kandinsky prints, tres chic. The fun part was yakking about art with the framer on duty. I have a formative understanding of art history (thanks to a sleep appreciation class), and love to gab in general. The framer, my wife, and I all shared a deep loathing for the Painter of Syrup, Herr Thomas Kinkade. The framer was especially vitriolic ("I hate his work, hate it, hate it. He's a master all right--a master salesman. Light isn't yellow"). Her rant made the trip--and the expense--worthwhile.