The U Turn 01:27
... About the puppet theatre, it showed up without advert or invite, at the time while the disgruntled women in the company and hire of the cab picketed in protest and finally rallied out, singing in tish-tosh-lam-sa-lee-dandy-carey-free-us-abroad fashion. Citing mental health reasons. This was awhile back. In any case, someone must have rifled through her things, online, looking for personal clues or incriminating artistic evidence, and having found some visuals (of her creations, not portraits) had put together a website.
A sort of facade into which dimension could be breathed, or not, and it would die a natural death. It existed as a beacon. In the distance, not reachable, but reconstructable. She was awestruck. That sort of thing takes time. Someone had made extra effort, but why? Very supportive, she wrote in her darling email messages; and played it cool, expecting no response, because it had after all been designed as "gift" from the Anonymous.
Someone else might be aghast at the appropriation of material, and question Motive. She did not. He did it with heart. She believed. And it must be a he, because only a sister would expend herself to a girl like that, unnecessarily, and that not granted, either. No, he wanted to show her how easy it was, work aside: 1) to set the stage 2) to put yourself out there 3) and to do it herself.
She was thoroughly charmed! What he didn't know was that she'd done it herself for years. She knew the burn out of the relentless effort and the poverty of it, despite the satisfactions. She regretted deeply that she could not make it work.
The taxi driver pulled his cap tighter over his forehead and thought about it. He didn't like this back and forth from various forms of drudgery, and tapped his finger on the steering wheel thinking about the elusive benefits of self-employ.