As an undergraduate painting student in Utah, I had an instructor (we’ll call him Duane) who operated a small side-business renting artworks as set decoration to film/television companies shooting in the area. They told him what their tastes were, and he got it for them. Duane tapped on his colleagues, friends, and occasionally his students. Business was brisk. A few TV series and, because of the influence of Sundance, a number of independent films would use Utah as their backdrop.

The most notable of all of these television programs or films was Touched by an Angel. It shot primarily in Salt Lake City and its crew worked closely with Duane to make sure that each set in the show was adorned with artworks appropriate to the character who lived/worked there.

Duane casually approached me one day and said that he like the way my work looked. He asked if he could take some pictures of my paintings to show some people. I was uncomfortable with the prospect, but being young, poor, and eager to please, I agreed to the photo shoot. Throughout the process I was assured that it would all be very tasteful and I would be paid a small rental fee. This was my introduction to the world of art porn.

After Duane pimped my work to the Touched by an Angel team, they wanted two of my paintings to appear in the office of a soulless lawyer who would come to have a crisis of conscience through Roma Downey and Della Reese’s gentle, yet persistent, persuasion. Part of me was flattered that they wanted to use my paintings, but part of me was offended that my work was “soulless lawyer’s office” material. I didn’t feel too bad once I discovered that my friend Ai’s prints hung in Satan’s office.

Touched by an Angel had my paintings for two weeks after which they returned them with a check for my troubles. It seemed like such easy money. I loan them a painting and I get it back with a check attached. The only cost was the shame of the act that followed. I didn’t want to tell my art friends who would surely look down on my for selling myself so easily. I had to keep it to myself and hope that the footage would never surface.

I was never told what episode my work was featured in, nor was I told when it would air. I’ve never had the stamina to sit in front of Touched by an Angel longer than it takes to change the channel, so I’ve never seen my paintings on TV.

I imagine some day I will receive a late-night knock on my door. I will find no one there, but an an anonymous manilla envelope will be sitting on my front stoop. The envelope will contain an unmarked video tape and a note threatening a wide release of the video footage unless I leave a black gym bag of unmarked bills in the trash can at the northwest corner of the park. I will kneel in front of my television, tentatively take the tape out of its case, slide it into my VCR, press play, and watch in anxious horror as scenes from my sordid past glow in front of me: my paintings, a paper-thin plot, swelling awful music, and Della Reese’s wrinkled, smiling face. I was too young.