Picture it: Cheyenne, Wyoming, 2008. Leap day. Your parents buy their first home in the wake of the Great Recession. You're a precious little 12 year old and you and your sisters are allowed to paint the stairway to the basement. You've never had a basement and it's the scariest, coolest, darkest place you've ever seen. You decide as a group to paint yourselves, and you paint yourself throwing a brick over one sister at the other. These portraits stand the test of time, surviving renters and many dogs, and get a few updates.
Then your mom gets these... plans. The house suddenly looks fantastic and modern. It's no longer a weird Air Force beige. The kitchen makes more sense. There's new carpet and better paint. Your kid brother has stolen your room, but it looks just the same so it's ok. After fifteen (15) years, the self portraits of you and your sisters are suddenly laid to rest under white paint.
Did I cry? On the inside. Do any of my other siblings care? Who knows. But I have an art degree and way too much time on my hands right now. The plan is to recreate these portraits (updated to our incredibly geriatric selves) and glue them to the wall. She can't paint over glued canvas. She'd have to pry them off the walls and redo the plaster. bwhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
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