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Artist at Work Max moved the floodlight yet another time, and gave the plate of pasta another spray of hair gel. It was a photographer’s trick, to make the pasta shine appetizingly without looking oily. Time was running out. Just a few more adjustments, a few more shots, and he hurried to the printer, disk in hand. These prints had to be at the agency before noon for the new MamaMia campaign. “Okay, JJ, you can eat the meatballs now,” he said. “Keep out of the pasta though.” One taste and JJ would leave it alone. The chimp wasn’t dumb. The pictures weren’t half bad, Max had to admit. Relieved, he slipped them into his leather briefcase with its M.M. embossed on the side. Maxwell Martin, you’re going places, he said to himself. As soon as Max left the room, JJ dumped the plate of pasta, sauce and all, onto the tray of his high chair. Then, with a map of the city’s subway system to refer to, JJ went to work. Deftly he maneuvered the strands of spaghetti so that they overlapped and intersected, extending to all sides of the tray in long, straight lines. He glanced at the diagram and added a few curves to his creation. Max, passing the kitchen, caught sight of the mess. “What the heck? JJ, I don’t have time for this. Leave that food alone and I’ll clean it up later!” He slammed the door angrily behind him. JJ grabbed the camera and took a few shots; then, just as Max had done, he printed them. Satisfied, he slipped them into his leather briefcase with the initials J.J. on the side, and headed out. He could imagine his big MamaMia posters on the walls of the Metro Transit stations. The agency would love them. 299 words |