The Courtroom Artist

I am in a conversation with one of the illustrators who is responsible for bringing the world images of what is transpiring inside a particular courtroom in New York City. You know, where that guy is meditating, or sleeping, or pretending if he closes his eyes nobody else can see what is happening.

Well, actually, it is not truly a conversation. It is more like I am talking and she is not sure where to hide. I now sent her a follow up to my email from last night, just for emphasis. So I guess you would not define this as a dialogue but rather a monologue. She might have a slightly less neutral term in mind.

Our relationship, ok we have no relationship, began innocently enough, as most of these matters do. 

It was shortly after the indictment was handed down. The first indictment for all of those keeping score. She was in that courtroom as he sat there contemplating whatever it was that was taking up space in his head. And her drawing of that moment became maybe the most iconic peek through the looking glass.

I sent a brief note to the magazine where this drawing graced the cover, congratulating the illustrator who had so perfectly captured the essence of the object of her, and our, attention.

Quite amazingly, I soon received a warm reply from the artist herself. That was her unfortunate  error. Give me an inch and I take a hectare.

Over the following day or two, I regaled her with proof of my quite amazing skills of placing one word next to another and recounted my astounding list of literary accomplishments. Her further disastrous decision was in actually engaging with me, at least for a brief instant. But, in short order, she learned better and, after a couple of unrequited bon mots, I finally got the hint.

That was over a year ago, and she must have felt that a bullet had been dodged. That I clearly understood we were not pen pals, that she and I were not destined to be besties and that my silence was greatly appreciated.

But, like Al Pacino, just when she thought she could get away, she found herself back in the middle of the maelstrom. Now that first indictment has moved into its third act. And while this trial has its tribulations for the Defendant it also has repercussions for the one assigned the task of capturing what none of us can see. For, like Chucky, I'm back.

Actually, I will let the artist formerly known as the artist reside in peace. I will not be further annoying her with my contemplations on the state of the universe or even a review of her work. These days are traumatic enough for her without my unnecessary interference.

And let it be known that she need not close her eyes, like Mr. Trump, to make me go away. But, there is a caveat, as well you might imagine there would be. For I pledge to be always here if she changes her mind and just wants to chat.

I'm quite certain she would have a few choice words in response to my generous offer. I eagerly await the same. Although, it is probably best merely to leave bad enough alone.