Sorry, no new painting to post. I felt compelled though, as I worked on a crafty artsy project, to write. Because my brain was running a million miles an hour about my hair and cloning.
See, almost every single one of my paintings holds a hair from my head. I don’t do this intentionally, but somehow, they leap to be part of my art. One day I was bemoaning the fact that there was one of my hairs tangled up in my background, interrupting the smoothness of it for a moment, a tiny, looping and sweeping strand of hair in a sea of color. A friend asked me about it, as she had also noticed its little interruption, I again cursed it, and mentioned that they always seem to find their way into my art in some way or another.
Her merry face was lit with amusement, and then a thought crept across her eyes. She asked me something like, “What if, someday far, far in the future, they’ve perfected cloning and they use your hairs to clone you?” (This is all presuming that after I die, I become something like a famous artist, unappreciated in their lifetime. After all, who would clone nobody?)
I think, at the time, I said I’d be annoyed.
As I was working on my crafty project today, I spied one of my hairs, not quite yet covered with paint, it’s artificial reddish hue peeking out at me. And I thought of the conversation I’d had with my friend.
The more I thought about it, the more I think I wouldn’t be annoyed. I’d see it as an opportunity to be the smart-Alec. I think I would – presuming that they’d somehow managed to clone at least some of my memory into the doppelganger of myself – mess with them. I would wander about, looking at what they have to say about my paintings, suggesting that I didn’t remember painting that in 2010. “No, no, I’m pretty sure that I painted that in 2013. Very good year, that… What do you mean it has a ’10’ on it? Well, I happen to like arbitrary dating. Just because I put that on there doesn’t mean anything…”
Poor buggers of the future where I became famous.