Pencil rendering of every olden-days teenager's god and imaginary ally, J.D. Salinger, who amazed me by dying this year at the age of 91. I suppose people who grew up in the possession of beloved parents feel this way when somebody who has always been there like a tree or a mountain in the background is shown to be capable of disappearing from the earth. The sincere and unskilled drawing on its little blank piece of card stock is taped down low among many other fanciful author pictures inside a window of Dog-Eared Books on Valencia @ 20th in San Francisco.