Naughty corner, naughty corner, and the red flag goes up. How dare she talk about that? And it is untoward to mention what brings us shame and embarrassment. What is she talking about? I am not sure what you think I am talking about, but it doesn't matter because, drum roll, my naughty corner is fruits— red fruits, but not fruity. What we are ordered to eat is just two per day, but I can never stop myself, especially when the right season is coming around. Juicy plums are trying to break through, and the new grapes, early autumn apples and pears growing quietly. All those fruits, I cannot stop myself, and I know my body doesn't like it much and is not too pleased with my excesses. But just one more grape with some cheddar and a bite of bread— not many olives in that roll, but the bread is nice and fresh. Naughty corner, we all have dark corners we do not like to talk about, we do not like to think about or look towards. And with age, some can be erased and destroyed, some can be straightened out, and a relationship can be restored. Some will just follow us till the end of time, till the end of the road, and we will never be able to shed them. Those corners are all ours; we do not ever want to look at them, we do not want them analyzed. They are part of who we are, and some of those corners cannot be smoothed over. Those naughty corners, never confessed, never ironed out, are us and will die with us.

Artwork Size & Ink Base:

Mixed media on canvas, 60*60 with poem

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Jeannine Kauffmann