“You know I was sort of born on this continent, Wheeler.”
“Please. Wilson while we’re here — land of your birth.”
“It indeed is,” he reinforced. Windmill country. Let’s see, to the south somewhere. No listed galleries on the contient but here we have one despite this. They should learn to advertise better.”
“Realism,” Wheeler Wilson waves it off while staring through the window at the art. Then she turns. But *here*. The artist is into something new, something different — being reborn into this world of Our Second Lyfe just like we’re trying to do. Abstraction breaking through. See there Newt?”
“Whitehead while we’re here, he also changed his name just not to be left behind. Last for first and first for last. Playing Wheeler Wilson’s game.”
“Fire, though. Can you see. Should we talk to the artist, tell her that we encourage this new development and don’t let up and see how far it can take her?”
“Sure,” he answered plainly. “But I hate to interrupt them while they work. Let’s wait on a break:
5 hours later:
“I’m going over,” Wheeler said. He’s trying to paint realistically again. That fire was perfect 2 hours ago. Now it’s getting ruined, too flamey, too detailed.”
“Go ahead, beloved one. Impart your creative wisdom on them from your 39 years of living on this Earth, if not this virtual reality.”
“Getting long for that one too,” and she got up and moved toward her, a fellow sister of the arts after all. Animals are great but you might as well photograph them instead of paint them. This is different — was different. Looks like she might have to start over again this one is so ruined already. Hard to see the details from her seat over there.
Sunklands 