Neo and his dad.

Patting the last hair into place.
Brian’s photos taken in the Marriott in Evansville.

I’m embarrassed to say it, but I couldn’t “do” Gauguin. I looked at his Tahitian women, those muted, not brilliant colors, his interpretation of the female form (what was he thinking?), assorted carvings thrown in for local flavoring and could only think of rum drinks from a Chinese restaurant. I’m sorry. Further on in the exhibit were dark, foreboding, wood block prints that appealed to me, but by then it was too late. Diane, however, loved it, especially in respect to the rich French tradition he had departed from to display his own vision. Matt and Hillary politely gave it a thumbs up.
But the fun part of the evening was dinner at the Smokehouse restaurant. There, we toasted Matt’s driver’s license , and Hillary smeared barbecue rib sauce all over her face. Not intentionally, mind you, that’s why each table comes with a roll of paper towels. Matt suggested I take her photo, but I didn’t dare. You see, many of my most prized shots, are arguably not my own, but only Matt knows for sure. Had I taken one of Hillary, it would have been compared, unfavorably, to Matt’s, and I would have been exposed.