And I find it pretty interesting that the only reason we know that the painter who did that wall existed, even lived at all, is that he asked for more. Like Oliver Twist, George says. Her mother smiles. In some ways, she says. What was his name? George says. Her mother screws up her eyes. You know, I knew this, George, I did know. I read it when we were at home. But right now I can’t remember it, her mother says. We came all this way to see a picture you like that much but you can’t remember the name of the man who did it? George says.
