words & art by shé

Done

Among the tennis shoes and bananas, I was thrilled to find the perfect expression of my feelings:

"How Shé Finishes a Book," 2026
How Shé Finishes a Book, 2026

“Pity Sells”

He calls himself The Tenderizer. He beats me so I’ll be tender. Dark humor there, I know, but I deserve it.

Mary called to see how the eye was healing. “I’m fine,” I lied. “It’s quite pretty, actually. Inspirational.”

“I’ve got cover-up,” she offered. She lives with a Tenderizer too.

“No thanks,” I said.

Oils this time, so I drag the shoebox of color out of the back of the closet. The canvases are already stretched and gessoed. I do that while the twins are at school, ten at a time. 

I choose a smallish piece and immediately slap on cadmium red. My paintings go for big bucks, especially when I play up the battered wife bit. People eat that up, think they’re getting something “real” for their money. I don’t care why they buy, so long as they do. Hal thinks it’s funny, wants credit. Fuck you, I say, and we’re off again.

“Why don’t you leave?” strangers ask me. Everybody else knows I don’t want to leave. It suits my personality. It suits my art. I heard of a so-called performance artist in New York who cut off pieces of himself while the audience watched. That was his Art, mutilating his body. He got rave reviews and an NEA grant. I get pitying looks and fat checks. I bet if I didn’t wear gingham and braid my hair I’d get a grant, too.

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