And so Ginter settled into the life of the vagabond artist. Hanging around the fringe as much as he does, Ginter has noticed the subtle and not so subtle changes in the fabric of the city. There are more homeless people than ever, more panhandlers, more tough guys. Squatting by his van--his paintings neatly displayed, customers nowhere to be found--he figures there has to be a better place. As he absently picks at a chunk of blue acrylic stuck to his forearm, he muses about a move to California.
"I think pretty much everything is obscene in this city," he finally says. "I know L.A. is probably even worse. But I just need to get a change."
Not long after, a gust of wind from the north blows the Dylan portrait to the grass, which is dappled with goose shit. Ginter springs to his feet to inspect the painting. It appears undamaged. He gathers up the rest of his canvases and climbs into the driver's seat, and the studio rolls down the road.