Jacob Lawrence, Picket Line (1948)

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October 21, 2004:

Chicago, early 1990s. Joanna drinks cheap red wine from a half-gallon bottle, sharing it with a party of younger comrades standing in the corridor before her room. Orange-red hair, nervous energy, throaty laugh raspy from cigarettes. "What are you going to do?", she asks, theatrically light-hearted, inwardly terrified.

They're going to oppose her at the convention next day. Because, as she herself admits in her private, lucid moments, she has no clue what she's doing.

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