After the introduction of the plastic container old Fishface fell on bad times. Hard times. No longer could he make a living with his simple wooden boxes. The power of new technology had cut off his livelihood. For many years he almost starved. Resenting as he did the iconoclastic world in which he lived, he expected to starve. To be defeated. He was not a boxmaker he was an artist, a clandestine painter. An outlaw, creator of prohibited imagery. If there was to be no escape then without doubt it would be either starvation or crucifixion for him. Directly or indirectly they would finish and defeat him. Doomed. I will paint black on black. Black tones of light and shade. Plastic containers became the norm. Fishface’s boxes became collector’s items. Wooden boxes become the exception. In time they became quite difficult to find. Fishface was sought out. People arrived at his workshop, carefully hid the reasons for their interest. Took away a box, to try and sell, they said. Fishface was delighted, that evening he dreamt of escape again.