categories: Cocktail Hour / Getting Outside
It’s already been ten years, or more.
But back in that day at the Farmington Farmer’s Union you’d see one of the young men working in the grain shed drawing during his breaks. He’d put the pencil down to get your order, cheerful kid, lifting the heavy bags, lifting, lifting, then drawing, drawing.
These large images remain, and others here and there. It’s like the caves at Lascaux, somehow, the dark grain shed, the memory of Justin’s hand caught in images, the fact of his having been there. I asked yesterday if anyone knew what had become of him. “Down south,” the young man carrying my grain said, none too confidently. “Working in art, I believe. Working in art.”