Where are they?

The caricaturist, the writer, and the artist?

  • I haven’t seen the caricaturist for a while. The boat she was on, capsized. She clung to the sides while the waves lashed out on the boat and flung her aside. Last I saw her, she was bobbing up and down on the violent seas…a ghost, a speck, a point…and then nothing.
  • I have been meeting the writer off and on. The humorist, she told me, is dead – the romanticist thrown in a dark dungeon of her own mind, only the realist continues to grapple with the truth, writing stories that don’t end.
  • The artist is alive – feeding her emotions, stoking her expressions, painting her canvasses – loading them with truth.

When and if the roles will ever change again, I haven’t a clue.

But if the past is any indication – the caricaturist doesn’t die, the writer keeps transforming, and the artist usually is the glue that keeps the three together.

Until December then…