Richard O’Donnell made a fortune in the carpet cleaning business. At the age of fifty-seven he retired to the Hamptons, where he took up painting as a hobby. His children would come to visit as often as they could, and, soon enough, O’Donnell’s children had children of their own, and his house was filled with the sound of screaming babies and singing toddlers. O’Donnell could not stand the noise and so would always excuse himself after breakfast, the reason being that he needed to work on a painting that he had been neglecting for far too long. O’Donnell’s children knew not to bother him when he was painting, but his grandchildren did not, even though they were told repeatedly to stay away from their grandfather’s “studio,” which was nothing more than a small patch of land overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, where O’Donnell had set up an easel, and where O’Donnell, much to his dismay, was interrupted one gloomy Sunday morning by one of his grandchildren. However, O’Donnell was not painting when he was interrupted, but standing in front of a blank canvas sans pants and underwear. He was wearing a blue short-sleeve button down shirt, slippers and sunglasses. When he turned around to see who was there he instinctively covered his genitals – which were coated in a thick robe of red paint – with a newspaper. This is how he was found and this is how he will be remembered.
Part Of The New Narrative Art That Emerged In The Eighties