We’re making our first visit to the Scottsdale mall. It’s not a store mall, but a Washington, D.C., mall, except no Forrest Gump calling for Jenny. It’s near the new home and one of our favorite places. A fabulous library with leather chairs for loitering while reading Rolling Stone and Runner’s World, a couple of art galleries, coffee and a huge lawn with fountains, rolling hills and of course, the LOVE statue.
Longtime readers will recall this is the same statue where the mythical El Señor brought the Lightweight Orange Racing Soup Ladle (anything else is just a big spoon) © to life. Coincidentally, there’s a business meeting over the weekend among a loose consortium of his shady associates called The Loop (I suspect it’s a Ponzi scheme of some sorts, but I was in early enough that I think I’m OK.) They have recently posed in front of one of the fake LOVE statues in Philadelphia (which may or may not be a real city.) I get a photo of me standing in front of OUR statue with a note asking where everyone is. ha ha.
I ask Mo if she wants a picture. Sure, she says, and walks behind it. Which is odd, because it’s a statue that spells out the word LOVE, so this rather defeats the purpose. My mind races. An anti-Trump statement? A commentary on the dwindling love in the world? Part of the Guerrilla Girl feminist art movement she just joined? I ask.
Nah. Lights better from this direction, she points out.
And that’s how we got a backward LOVE and a well-lighted photo of Mo’s bottom.
Living with an artist is weird.