Photo by Bigstock.
I hung the large empty frame on my cracked and barren wall.
The frame is beautiful—Corinthian curlicues, heavy oak battered gold
Leaf and dirt.
On the top left corner it is chipped, a small defect.
This was once a very expensive frame. A work of art.
Near the alley, where it was delegated as TRASH, are a few up-and-
coming galleries, some showing low-energy high-priced crap.
I know this frame is worth 10 times more than most of the interesting
works for sale.
The frame is old: bits of paper-backing brown with age. The smooth
brass hanging fixture is flush with the oak backing. I notice an ink
stamp. 1/2 of one anyway and I see it has a pedigree.
This is no cheap faux foam reproduction.
What are you doing in my alley? You do not belong here. It’s then I
realize the small chipped corner has labeled this piece of fine art to
I look at the frame hanging on my dismal wall.
My God can I live up to the empty frame couture? Its elegance states I
must paint something contemporary.
A scenic in oils, pastels...UUURGH!
This frame is intimidating me. What does the fucking frame think it is anyway?
It's got a chip on its shoulder
Neil participates in Megaphone’s community writing workshop at Onsite.
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