He's a painter, not of canvases but of walls and ceilings, doors, baseboards and crown moldings.
He's covered head to toe in splatters, splashes, and drippings of paint, mostly white, dribs and drabs of red and black, a smattering of dark green and a bit of gold, from the cuffs of his baggy painters pants to the sweaty collar of his Carhart sweatshirt to the backs of his callused hands. His workboots are worn and equally covered, paint's been raining down on them for years. He's a Jackson Pollack painting incarnate, shrunk down and animated, risen from the floor and striding down the street. Easing into his truck, settling into another day with his paints and brushes, working his universal canvases.
So true.