It was less the feeling that the painter did not know what to paint than that he was housesitting in a fancy house whose floors were covered in persian rugs. Even the kitchen had its own knitted, potted plant growing in blue and maize onto a dried blood background on the floor. After inspection, the painter found no stains even on the kitchen rug, even on the off-white tassels that ended it on either side. Moving the rugs was out of the question–they were much too heavy and the painter had violent allergies. In ernest, the painter began an elaborate process of snipping garbage bags open and lashing them together into a crude covering with dental floss. Seeing that it would take him hours to cover the whole of the rug in a way that was precise enough to ease his anxiety, the painter put his forehead to the floor. Then he took out his sketchbook and a pen. He went into the living room, collapsed into a Louis XVI chair, and turned on the radio. After all, he thought, he could make do with a lesser art.