Framed-art tour, exhibit 7


Some weeks ago, our dining table clogged with paints and rags and a pitcher of grubby water, I took in with only half my brain the loud vermilion flowers Noemi’d daubed on her square of paper. Then I saw she was lettering something. I stopped in my tracks to squint at the stubby, oversize orange-sherbet words. BETTER IS GOOD. What?

She and I had a little go-round about that.

I can see the point. Be happy for what beauty you’ve managed. Relax. Don’t be such a pick. However, if your pickiness is the incorrigible kind, inbred, nothing ever quite takes the cake. “Better” means “best” is still just around the corner.

Better is good—no. A person could go mad.

Noemi’s hacked-off piece of watercolor paper, though, when I spied it, spattered with more of her flowers? Immediately I coveted it. Those any fusspot could love.


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