The lucky few get away with something resembling murder. The rest - scraps. It was something I heard countless times growing up from my father. A man who loved to talk a big game. And his lack of love for the order of things was present in every word he said.
He wasn’t a petty man, just ground down by his years of working for others. In that time he had done everything from deliver milk, to make sandwiches, to run numbers. Everything he did was always as a cover for another. Yet somehow he maintained a sparkling reputation.
That and a trophy room.
You’d think the trophy room would be in honor of the debauchery he was party to, or the small victories he achieved in his time serving those who would be kings. It wasn’t.
Clearing it out now all it did was leave me wondering who he really was. Why would anyone, let alone him, collect such trite crap. And more than that, call it trophies.
Today’s art is courtesy of Hannah Matthews from London, UK.