There are times I regret being a writer, or at least the sort of writer who doesn’t get James Patterson paydays. Had I had the good sense to be a venture capitalist, or even had I just run a bodega, I might be able to afford a mistress. And there is one young lady I’ve got my eye on. I’ll tell you about her in a moment.
It all started because I have a weakness for commercial art painted for magazine covers and advertisements from the first half of the 20th century. This may be sacrilege, but I’m not really a Norman Rockwell guy. One can’t help but admire his impeccable draftsmanship and his unerring sense of humor, but liking Rockwell is just a bit obvious. More interesting is the artist from whom a young Norman relentlessly copied and cribbed, J.C. Leyendecker.
