backforthmenu Inspiration. My mouth lets unrehearsed words of praise slip out, and in my experience this means I sound, well, retarded—to my own ears, anyway. But he is gracious, warm. This is his night. “Thanks, man. Thanks.” His neck bends, seemingly rubber-like, letting his own ear practically rest on his shoulder. Voice soft and sincere. Eyes looking right into me, alive... and somehow making me shorter. We are equal in height, but he just seems taller, much taller, even with his head tipped over. In school I’d usually sit near the back and melt into my chair, slumping—no one ever told me to sit up straight. After a time doodling in my notebook I’d look up and have the distinct physical feeling of being at least three feet shorter and shrinking. I became a dwarf in the plastic school chair. The teacher was huge. This scared me because it felt very real, my mind actually convincing me I was becoming Tom Thumb in size. I’d blink a few times and try to shake myself out of it and gradually, the feeling would go away. With Eric White standing before me, I felt the same as I did back in school. Short and 13. Humbled. His paintings are amazing and huge. And all of them (about six) painted in 10 months. The place is packed and my son is crawling around between my knees. My emotions are a jumble of elation and inspiration vs. inadequacy and anxiety. “Daddy, I gotta poop.” I look down at him, hanging from my belt. I look up again at Eric who’s already been drawn away by another, even shorter person. We quickly say goodbye and struggle through the thick crowd to begin our search for a restroom. We find it. A complete wreck. Toilet overflowing. No paper. My mind is sifting quickly through alternatives when Emmet decides he just needs to pee. I breath a sign of relief. 11/?/00