Aug 22, 2017 · 1 min read
I once read a book written by someone who spent time living with Andy Warhol. Similar type stories. I remember one in particular: they were staying at a house with a white picket fence. One morning Andy convinced another roommate to whitewash it. As evening rolled around they went to retrieve the roommate, only to discover him sitting on the ground next to his bucket and paintbrush, staring at the fence which had not yet been touched because he never got started. When asked why he hadn’t done anything, he responded, “I couldn’t tell if the fence wanted to be painted or not.”
