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So that was my sculptor's career, as far as ever I made it to fame and fortune. So naturally I refused the offer. But actually I did have one show in a gallery with an opening.
I watched to see what people noticed about my art. I didn't sell anything, but I did have three pieces stolen in a middle of the night break-in, of which I received insurance money, my only gallery clearance sale, thieves in the night. At any rate I was a museum artist. My pieces magically appeared in museums without ever the indignity of having been thrown into the capitalist market place. Art is all psychology.
And then there was Glen. He was rotund, chubby, seraphim faced, rosy glow,
slicked-black straight hair. He was a contractor who lived over in the Glen Park neighborhood. He liked to get his hair cut at a barber shop on Potrero Hill where it would turn out, that I would work for the owner of that Shop, rented to the barber who told me that O. J. Simpson would come by and hang-out in the doorway in his high-school days all full of himself.
Glen drove an antique car maybe a late forties Chevy two-tone green with a visor over the wind-shield and white-wall tires. He was one of our group and he gave me a job once taping sheet-rock and painting a small cottage he had on his property. And we did a job over in the shopping district of West Portal Avenue. I don't remember but I probably did the patching with paper tape.
He hired a guy out of the cafe who may have been in our group for a short time to do linoleum counters.
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