Richard Weldman was not in a particularly good mood when he woke up. He hadn’t slept well. He attributed that to his wife’s amorous disinterest last night. She’d rather finish her book club book than make love. Then on this morning’s jog, he hurt his knee. Nothing serious, he hoped, but by the time he’d limped back home, Gwen was gone who knows where. He showered and changed and worked for a few hours. Twice he had to call his secretary, good old Cindy, which he hated to do on Sundays. Finally he closed his laptop and went to the kitchen to look at the calendar. If nothing was doing this afternoon, it might still be possible to get in a round of golf. He saw the note in Gwen’s handwriting: Art Show!!!

He managed to find a parking spot near the far end of the park past the ball field. A little league game was in progress. He watched the game for a few minutes, then set off down the sidewalk which bordered the park. The streets on three sides of the park had been blocked off, and artists were showing their paintings, sculptures, and craftwork under colorful awnings. Quite a crowd.

Richard would have liked to surprise Gwen, but after twenty minutes of strolling, he hadn’t seen her. He took out his cell phone.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” A shaggy man, overweight, almost middle-aged, was rushing toward him, his arms waving. “Whoa there. Stop.”

Richard looked at him quizzically.

“No pictures,” the man said, almost out of breath.

“What? No pictures? What do you mean?”

“No pictures of the art. No photographs.”

“Huh?” Richard said, still puzzled.

“I saw you aiming your little camera. You can’t take photographs of the paintings.”

“Why not?”

“It’s stealing,” the man said. “Modern digital photography being what it is.”

“I don’t understand.”

The man explained, barking out sentences he’d obviously barked out before. “My work, my work, my work” were the emphasized words. Obviously the man was one of the artists.

“I’d think you’d want the publicity,” Richard said. “Wouldn’t photographs allow more people to enjoy more of your work?”

The artist shook his head in disgust. “What people like you don’t realize is what goes into creating something like that.” He gestured to a very large painting hanging prominently on the pegboard at the entrance to his stall.

Richard took a closer look. Flecks and wisps of gold on a black background. Delicate and brilliant, the wisps and flecks looked about to take wing. Richard took a step closer to the painting. Yes, take wing before they were blown away, he decided. The artist said, “Sometimes I allow photographs, if I’m asked nicely.”

“Not bad,” Richard said, paying little attention to the artist. “How much does something like that go for?”

“Something like that?” the man said harshly. “Something like that! It’s not something like that. It’s that.”

“I see,” Richard said. “Pardon me. Well, how much is it?”

“Five thousand.”

“Whew! Is it your masterpiece?”

“You don’t realize...” the artist said.

“I know, I know. How much work goes into your work. Will you take a credit card?”

“I’m not selling it to you.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. For you, this painting is not for sale.”

“What about some of your other ones. Your lesser works?”

“I don’t have any lesser works. And I wouldn’t sell you one if you were the ... if you were the...”

“The last philistine on earth?” Richard supplied.

The artist scowled.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I kind of like your paintings. I’m sorry you won’t let me buy one.”

“Your opinion is worth nothing,” the artist said.

“Okay,” Richard said, “you may be right,” and he strolled away. But a few steps down the sidewalk, he looked back. When he turned, pain shot up from his knee and he almost lost his footing. The artist was talking amiably with an older couple. But then the artist looked up and over at Richard, and he made a dismissive gesture, as if he were telling the couple about Richard the art thief. Richard found that his cell phone was still in his hand. He waited for a woman walking two large dogs to clear, and then he took a photograph of the artist. That done, he phoned his secretary.

“Hey, Cind, I know I said I wouldn’t bother you again, but I need a really big favor. I need you to stop at the Home Depot on Grand and pick up a couple of half gallons of paint and some brushes. No, any paint. House paint. Any color. Red would be good. Red and maybe, oh you decide. And ordinary brushes, medium size, three four inches. Right. Oh, and a screwdriver to open the paint cans. Do paint cans still need screwdrivers to open them? Then meet me at the south end ofProspectPark. Yeah, past the Little League field. I have to go to the bank, so an hour from now is fine. Shoot, you’re right, the bank is closed. Shoot. Okay, I’ll just have to run into the office, so make it two hours. Oh, pick up a drop cloth, too, unless you have a big old bed sheet you can spare. Maybe two sheets. Thanks.”