If you’ve never seen Gerome Meminger paint, it’s nothing short of mesmerizing. He slips on his black painting shoes—immediately reminding you of a Jackson Pollack canvas—slides a white smock over his shirt, presses a black, pinstriped fedora over his closely-cut, salt and pepper hair, cues the music—typically jazz; he loves “Georgia on my Mind”—and then he caresses the canvas, surveying the surface for its sweet spot. Meminger pauses, and then aggressively tints the once colorless. He bobs and weaves like a prizefighter with a pallet knife and a brush, swiping and scraping, right hand rapidly tapping against the surface.
Read the full story at The Health Journal