No. 167. Hairpin Turn.

"What's this then?"

"It's a sculpture."

The pointed and, he thought, rather abrasive question had come from the painter next door. Her name was Abigail Swan. She tended to make abstracted landscapes that sort of folded together works by John Marin and someone like Morgan Russell. He didn't mind them too much. And besides, sometimes she brought him a freshly brewed pot of green tea.

"I thought sculpture sat in the floor."

"Not this one."

"Well, if it hangs on the the wall, then it's really a picture, isn't it?"

This was a smarter comment than he expected to hear from Abigail. He was just about to get into a long discussion about volume and implied volume and fictive volume and how volumes weren't masses, when Abigail suddenly turned away from the piece and smiled at him.

"Would you like some green tea?" she asked him.

"I'd love some."

"You know what your wall sculpture looks like," she added. "A hairpin."

"It does?"

"Well okay maybe a safety pin."

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