Let your palette singe and smolder like a fire in a pig barn! Let your colors burn like an inflamed urethra! Turn up the colors, we say: turn them up! Make the neighbors pound on the wall and shout “turn down that painting!”

I’m certain that wallpaper is flocked, and feels furry to the touch. Why, I’ve no idea; I’ve never felt compelled to drift over to the wall and nuzzle the pattern with my cheek. The painting, at last report, was sitting unsold at a yard sale, marked down to a quarter.

Fear: the lurking horror that someone might actually ask you what that painting means. Oh, you can give the standard answer - it doesn’t mean anything - and you can adopt the proper world-weary tone you use on people who ask such stupid things. But it does raise an interesting question: if it cost $5,000, and it doesn’t mean anything, and it looks like something excreted by a character in “Yellow Submarine,” why exactly is it on your wall?