Most front doors in his street were flanked by the suburban sculpture of wheelie bins and discarded pink bicycles. Outside No. 37 a crumbling, but still imposing, Guardian Lion told those in doubt that the owner of this particular dwelling was a bit different. It wasn’t a real Lion, but it looked real enough. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between what is and what isn’t art anyway. That’s what the occupier of No. 37 always insisted.
Beyond its alabaster sentry the house seemed still. The only faint sounds coming from behind the bolted basement door. The exhibition was tomorrow yet his work was stubbornly refusing to be completed.
‘A Family in Still Life‘ he had decided to call it. The local mayor herself was scheduled to do the unveiling.
While mother, son and daughter stood stiff, grey and impassive, it was the father who was causing the artist problems. Even when he finally seemed at peace, the plaster would crack again as the embers of life refused to leave his veins. However, the latest coat seemed to be sticking; resistance appeared to be over.
Content at another job well done, the artist switched off the basement light and climbed the stairs to bed. His mind already flicking onto the next commission.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.