The Artist
The aroma of marijuana scents the air. Sean takes another puff of his joint and gently hands his camera to me. “Hold the camera steady, Aria. The world needs to watch the artist work, baby.” He grabs the bucket of magenta house paint and walks over to the tarp covered terrace. Sean pours the bucket of paint over his head, the magenta paint cascading down his face, picking up pace as it flows down his chest, over his genitals and pools at his feet. “I need help with my back Aria,” Sean says as...