Christopher Fame

I was at an art show, where I noticed a tall, thin, pale man painting pictures of vases. His booth also displayed what looked like pages from graphic novels, mostly cityscapes with stores whose signage rearranged itself — in real time — into pithy or snarky anagrams. There was also a page depicting a low-rent entertainer, a short, blond fellow in a dinner jacket.

Something about this artist’s work seemed familiar to me. “Your work seems familiar to me,” I said. “Would I know your name?” He turned to me and said that while I lived in a world of commercial something-or-other, he lived in a world of color. I later found out that his name was Christopher Fame.

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