River Boulevard is really nothing
like a river at all. It is a four-lane, concrete road environed by generic
corporate food chains and supermarkets, and even more unimaginative local
stores, all located in very conventional rectangular brick-walled or
beige-plastered buildings—consisting of four sides and a roof. The boulevard
doesn’t even have any bends or turns. No sinuosity at all, just a straight
line. It’s not even a boulevard. That would suggest the existence of trees. But
the small maples they planted to replace the large ones they cut down were
removed two years later to make room for more gas stations and banks. A few
sylphlike trees remain. Not that anyone can properly admire the natural
entities. Even though they are in the foreground, the long rows of conforming
modernity behind make the trees well nigh indistinguishable. The background has
overrun the foreground. Similar to some jejune painting or picture: everything
is out of focus. No texture. No depth. I float down River Boulevard, passing
the same jovial slogans and feigned affability in the signs outside: “Come On
In, Enjoy Home Cookin’!” “Everything Served Fresh!” “Walk-Ins Welcome!” “Get 4%
Off Your Interest!” “Welcome!” “Buy One, Get One 20% Off!” “Have a Great Day!”
“Enjoy the Sunshine!” even “Going Out of Business!”: until resting at the
intersection of River and Ojibwa Road (named in honor of the language the
previous owners spoke). At this intersection I notice three very interesting
figures: a bison, an oilrig, and a squirrel. I’ve never seen these structures
before. Statues. The bison is crudely formed from rusted sheet metal. The
oilrig is made from used construction rods—also rusted. And the squirrel looks
to have been pieced together by separate plastered shapes. The half that
purports to be a head and body is colored an unsightly dark blue grey. The tail
is maroon. Of course it really looks like two blobs placed together like some
elementary school student’s failed Science Fair project. If only. If only these
hunks of metal and plaster were on display by the township for the purpose of
ridicule, with a banner hanging over them: “Shitty Art.” A girl can dream. No.
As I drive away, viewing the manufactured art in my rear view window, I know
all too well the town of Willow Valley Creek gladly purchased these pieces from
a local artist somewhere. I do not know whom.
While attending The University of
Art Academia every student must take at least six courses of Art History.
Though this may seem daunting, the university was a trimester school. So a
student, theoretically, could take all the classes by the end of his or her
sophomore year. Most did not. Because I was a diligent do-gooder of a student,
did. The classes were not all that difficult, and were more centered on History
than Art. I imagined our professors being adrift scholars after graduate
school. Clutching on their Ph.Ds in Anthropology, or Intellectual History, they
waded in the sea of Jobless Opportunity, waiting for one of the state or
private universities to pluck them from the waters. Until at last they washed
up on the shore of our university, and with nowhere else to go decided they
would make do with what they had. Maybe it was a little too dramatic, and
cruel, but it was great imagery. The idea haunted me my whole academic life. I
eventually created a piece based off it my senior year. It was featured in my senior
showcase upon my graduation (titled: Déjà vu). Fun stuff. But the
erudite professors of the Art History courses really did know quite a bit. And
though I often imagined the professors fantasizing about suicide as they
lectured us on Dadaism, or the chronology of Cubism, or famous artist of the
Baroque period, because that’s what I did during those classes, their
dedication to teaching us about these periods or artists was unequivocal. They
really liked history. They really liked teaching. I was just never convinced they liked teaching about Art History. But it was that outside,
objective, view of art that attracted me most to those professors. One in
particular: Dr. Gene Jerwulski. Dr. Jerwulski had my attention and respect from
the moment he walked into our classroom and starting speaking, and it had
nothing to do with the fact I found him quite attractive. No. He had my
attention because of his beauty, but he gained my respect and admiration when
the first thing he said was: “Hello students. This is a History class. So
expect a lot of reading and writing. And no apologies, I don’t give a shit how
that makes you feel.” He mockingly
gesticulated with his hands. I loved it. I didn’t know why, but to see his salutation
slap some of my peers in the face enthralled me. Though I was just a freshman,
many of the other students were juniors and seniors (Note: most students took
five to six years to graduate from the university). I witnessed their smug
visages turn to scowls within seconds. As Dr. Jerwulski chalked his name and
the title of the course (A Study of Art: Historical Contexts of Art in the Late
Nineteenth to Mid Twentieth Centuries), I overheard one student whisper to
another “Can he, like, say that?” The other shook her head in disbelief.
When I reach my parents’ home—a
lifeless box shaped like a house—I ring the doorbell. The very familial noise,
hollow and without timbre, stirs the dogs—Pie and Emma, a collie mix and a shih
tzu. Through the mix of barking and yipping, I hear my mother shuffle to the
door, the scamper of paws on the newly placed wood floors, and my mother’s
shushing. As she opens the door, the two dogs scoot out behind her. “No!” she
calls after them, but upon noticing her only child standing on the “porch” (in
reality more of a concrete slab than anything else) in front of her she forgets
about Pie and Emma. “Oh good!” she says. “Come on in. I was hoping that’d be
you.” I step inside and am immediately welcomed by the warmth of the house and
smell of pumpkin spice. Mother is cooking for Halloween. “I’m so glad you could
come home,” she says taking my coat, practically ripping it from me. “I’m sorry
to bother you about this, but Dad is down in Miami trying to finish up a deal,
and I didn’t want to do this by myself and risk slipping the disk again.” My
mother is on medical leave from her job after injuring her back on a hiking
expedition with my father in Tennessee last month. They recently replaced the
carpeted floors with wood in hopes that it would make the house more valuable,
and more likely to be purchased when they try to sell it next year after they
retire. “I’m more than happy to help, Mom,” I tell her. “Well, thank you. We
took down the paintings before and did all the work, but he got called down and
I didn’t want to wait a whole week to put the paintings back up. It’s hard
enough for me to get around as it is. Now I have to dodge paintings in the
hallways and they are cluttering up the rooms. And I am afraid the dogs will
knock one of them over. Emma loves to get behind a few and hide.” My mother has
a penchant for saying many things with one breath. As she takes in some air, I
proceed. “It’s OK. Like I said. I’m glad to help.” I notice the floors have not
been crowned. I point to the dovetail of wall and floor. “Are you going to fix
that?” She looks. “Hmm? Oh. Yes. Dad promised he is going to take care of that
when he gets back.” I look at her. “He said that?” “M’hm.” “And you believe
him?” She smiles and exhales. “No. But a girl can dream, can’t she?” and then
she gives me a loving hug. “It’s good to see you, honey.” “It’s good to be
back, Mom.” She returns from hanging up my coat with a mug of hot coffee with a
traditional, seasonal hint of pumpkin. “Thanks.” I say. “Welcome.” As I drink
we have small talk about the weather and the drive from the city and if I’m
seeing anyone (No). I ask about my
father’s business ventures and how my mother is recovering (he's tired from all the travel, she's doing much better than last week). We hit a
little bit of a lull, so I decide to bring up the three objects on River
Boulevard. “Oh yes. Those are new. Some local artist did them for the town,” my
mother smiles. “Oh really?” I say. “Yes,” she nods. “They’re a little strange
for my tastes, but that’s OK. It’s art, right?” I choke a little on my pumpkin
coffee. “You OK?” “Yes,” I cough, “just fine. Wrong tube.” My mother smiles. After
I finish my coffee, we start hanging up the framed paintings. I do most of the
lifting on account my mother’s poor spine. “And this goes here.” “And that goes
there.” etc. etc. Almost every one of the paintings I hang up are pieces I
created in college—mainly from my senior year. A lot of crude, unfinished
works, my artistic acumen reached a plateau by the end of my sophomore year.
All the paintings either lacked the attention to detail they needed, or simply
were poorly thought out, or executed—often all of the above. It is torture for
me to look at any of my work, as is custom for many artists. To have it hanging in
my parents’ home for all their friends and neighbors to witness is akin to
hell. While I am centering one piece in particular (very boring, very lazy,
unimaginative piece I did: an oil pastel of a faucet pouring into a nose, or
vice versa depending on which way you look: which, I now regret, I received an
award nomination for my junior year) above the fireplace in the family room, my
mother brings up the three statues: “I don’t understand why they didn’t contact
you about it. No, no, honey, a little more to the left.” “Well,” I struggle to
both maintain balance and explain, “they probably… didn’t… know… I do that…
which I really don’t.” “What’s that? No. More left. Wait! No. More. What’s that
you were saying?” “I’m not… really creating… commercial art, Mom. You know
that. I’m a professor now. Any art I do create… is for educable purposes… or
something I’m just doing for fun. I… don’t… think I could… do what they’d ask
anyway…” “Well why not? No, I liked it the other way, a little to the right.
There!” I step down from the chair and stand back next to my mother, staring at
the picture. “Because I’m not a sculptor, Mom. You know that.” “Sculptor,
painter, whatever, you’re an artist. You could do that. They had to have paid
him good money for it, too.” “I’m sure they did. But I probably wouldn’t have
agreed to do the project anyway.” I sit down. “Why not?” she’s shocked by what
I just said. “You could do that.” Wiping the sweat from my face, “Even if I
could, which I can’t, they didn’t come to me for a reason: They don’t know me.”
“Well of course they do. Nancy Dreich is on the town board. You remember her?”
“Vaguely, yes.” “Rubbish. I was surprised they didn’t ask you. Nancy should
have thought to ask you.” “Mom. Nancy barely knows me. Or me her.” “What are you
talking about? You were both good friends back in high school.” “We carpooled
to school maybe twice. I don’t think we ever talked to one another while in the
car.” Defensively, slightly off-put, my mother says, “Well it would have been
nice to see your work on the corner there, that’s all. That’s all I’m saying. I
think you’re very talented, and I think the world should see your art. And I
don’ think, though I love it and I love having it here,” she points to the
faucet-nose piece (Any Which Way? was
the title), “I think this art should be in collectors’ homes and in museums and
out in cities and towns to be admired, not in my home.” “Mom.” “Yes.” “That
painting isn’t even hanging right. I just realized it. It’s supposed to be
horizontal, not vertical.” “I thought the water was running into the nose?” “It
is.” “Well…” “But it isn’t. That was,” I stop. “Never mind.” “So change it
then.” “It’s not important to me.” Her head cocks to the left. Disappointed.
“It’s not. No. But it is to me.” I sigh. “Sorry. Let me fix this and then we
can put up the last one.” The last painting was one I bought for my parents. I
claimed it was a thank-you present, purchased with the money from my first paycheck—as
an assistant professor. I really got it in the hopes my parents would get rid
of Déjà vu, on display in their living room. And they did. (Only
to have it placed awkwardly in the staircase leading to the bedrooms.) The
replacement “painting” was a copy of Mucha’s poster for Chocolat Idéal.
Walking through the narrow halls of
the Macrowski History of Art Center, a small wing of the newly renovated
Venetian Gothic church, I made my way to Dr. Jerwulski’s office. The President
of the university—Marilynn-Joy Presley—purchased the 19th century
revivalist church a few years before. The building now housed most of the
administrative offices, and the whole Art History department. Presley herself
redesigned the top floor into a two thousand and seven hundred square feet
conference room (titled: “The President’s Conference Room”), and her
office—eleven hundred square feet, equipped with a small kitchen and personal
bathroom, leaving barely enough space outside for her secretary. Down the slim
corridor, in the penultimate door on the left, he waited for me. On most
occasions, as in this one, I found him lounging in his beaten leather chair.
The university only provided him with a cheap, uncomfortable white plastic
chair. So he brought his leather one from grad school. It was another small
example of his defiance—though he would claim its purpose was purely for
“reasons of comfort.” As I walked in I saw him: head perched against those long
boney fingers, extending like surreal tree limbs from the trunk of his
forehead, which was planted firmly on the arm of his veteran chair, his body
almost parallel with the seat and one of our blue mid-term essays propped in
his other hand. I knocked, more so tapped, on his door. Waiting a beat, I made
my way to the white plastic chair before he even lifted his eyes to see me.
“How’s it going?” I said, eagerly waiting his recognition. He looked up and
offered a curt smile. Then straightening himself in the chair, “Oh just reading
one of your peer’s essays.” He waved the blue pamphlet. “I see. And how’s that
going?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat about his cumbersome task ahead. “The
whole process has been… enlightening—to
say the least.” He tossed the essay onto his desk, and rubbed his face. “We
haven’t met your expectations, have we?” I tried to sound a little
disappointed. The truth was we both new the majority of the students did not
care about his course and were perfectly content with doing the bare minimum
and getting by with a passing grade. I was not: partly because I was a
perfectionist and did not like the idea of mediocrity, mostly because I was on
a scholarship that required me to give a shit, but also because I genuinely
liked the course and Dr. Jerwulski. “No, no,” he said. “You’ve all pretty much
met my exact expectations.” I laughed, even though it hurt to hear him say
that. I always feared he lumped me in with the rest of those trust fund
slackers. He smiled. “What can I say? I suppose Art and Nationalism are
difficult concepts to piece together.” “Not really,” I offered. “No. Not
really,” he agreed. “But that’s not why you came here.” “Nope. I actually
wanted to talk to you about my paper.” The paper was not due until the end of
the course, which was another month or so away, but I had chosen a rather heady
subject. “Good. How can I help?” I reached for my notebook, “Well, you know how
my subject is on Mucha.” “Ah yes,” he smiled. “And how is our Slav friend
doing?” “Not so good. He’s dealing with the failure of Le Pater right now.” “Mmm.” “Yeah. And I’m not having that much
success right now either,” I said. “How’s that?” “Well, so I’m at a bit of a
crossroads here. My piece is supposed to be about artistic art versus
commercial art.” “Right,” he nodded. “But… like… Mucha,” I was struggling. Dr.
Jerwulski’s eyes were centered on me. I never liked appearing vulnerable in
front of anyone, vis-à-vis my artistic or intellectual prowess, let alone
professors—especially him. This paper, in many ways, was more his idea than
mine. I wanted to do something on Klimt. “Klimt is overrated. Don’t do it on him.
Do it on a real artist, Mucha,” he told me, quickly backtracking, “I mean I
don’t want to promote my ideas, but I find Mucha to be a much more fascinating
person than Klimt.” I now think it had more to do with the fact that he could
not read about Klimt, Picasso, or Warhol one more time. I jumped on the idea.
“Yeah. Mucha could be really cool.” I was eager to please him. I wanted him to
recognize I was not like the others. I was smart. I cared about Art History.
Whether any of that was actually true or not was not the point. I let him talk
me into Mucha, and then I let him give me the subject of my paper. What was
originally going to be about Klimt and how he was the essence of the Art
Nouveau movement (a case I now realize is utter bullshit), Dr. Jerwulski
convinced me to do it on Mucha and the “juxtaposition of commercial and
artistic art.” I had no real idea what my paper was about. And so there I was:
lost in his small, windowless, forty-five square foot office. “My piece is on
commercialism…” I paused. “Right,” he nodded. “But… like… Mucha… was, uh, very,
like… commercially successful, though. So… I guess I don’t know why he would be
the right artist for a counter point.” Dr. Jerwulski stared blankly. I sat
frozen and exposed. He would understand I was a fraud. I had no concept of what
he was talking about. I had betrayed him. But then the reaction was wrong. No
reproach. No damnation. No castration. He smiled and leaned back in his warn
chair. “What do you mean?” he said. “Well, Mucha was very successful and was
basically known for his commercial art. All the stamps and posters and what not
were his real well known pieces of art. He wasn’t really appreciated as a
quote-unquote ‘real’ artist. I mean even the Art Nouveau movement was kind of…
I don’t know… like kitschy and commercialized, and a sell out.” He simply
looked at me. His head slightly cocked to one side. He wanted me to explain
myself further. “And so… my whole point is supposed to be about… uhm… you know…
not that.” Dr. Jerwulski said nothing.
“So… I guess… I’m… uh… grasping for straws here. I don’t know. I’ve hit a dead
end I feel.” I was exhausted. Five minutes into the meeting and it felt like
two hours. I had a list of things I thought we could talk about for days and in
five minutes he reduced me to some mumbling juvenile—like all the others in my
class. He didn’t even say anything. I bowed my head. We sat in silence for what
could have been minutes, but was probably seconds. “Mucha was a commercial
artist. Sure. You are right with that. But, I suppose my response to that is
‘So what? Who cares?’” I looked up. He was not angry. No real agitation in his
tone or gesticulations. He was more amicable than I expected. Professorial.
“With Mucha you have a paragon of the ‘tortured artist’—so to speak. And I
don’t mean the conventional coeval definition. I mean with Mucha you have an
artist who struggles with his own identity, success, and art. From his efforts
to be recognized by his own people, which in many ways explain his borderline
obsession with Slav nationalism, to his struggle with what he called ‘the
spirit of art’—which was not the commercial art he is, was known for. He
created truly beautiful pieces of art. Le
Pater is one of them. The Slav Epic is unequivocally his magnum opus. But that
was locked up for some thirty years in a basement somewhere. Nobody gave a shit
about his artistic endeavors. They only cared about his Berhardt’s and other
such posters and prints. I mean we are not talking about some con-artist who
has stumbled upon some niche in the community and chooses to fully exploit it
because a) he can, b) he has no actual talent for an artistic career, and c)
the community is either too ignorant or too far up their own asses to see they
are being duped!” I had never, and would never see him this animated again. I
had struck a vein. That much I was certain of. But what was flowing out of the
vein was not so clear. “So he was largely remembered for his commercial art. He
was also—for a period of time—being bankrolled by millionaires in the United
States. So what? Artists need to eat too. You do realize that without rich
people Western Art would have practically died with the fall of Rome? It’s OK
to sell out,” he paused. “As long as you don’t lose that spirit. Mucha is a perfect example of that. He did one type of art
that fed and sheltered him and his family. And he also created great
masterpieces that he could be proud of. Some can do both at the same time. Look
at J.C. Leyendecker, or other American illustrators in the turn of the century
to mid-century—like: Gil Elvgren, Maxfield Parrish, Howard Pyle. Shit, Gibson
even. All great artists—yeah, I went there—and all of it mostly commercial. But
they were artists. Real, genuine, in the flesh artists. Their craft might be
questioned, but their devotion to art and capturing the true beauty and soul of
life should never be. And that is the point of Mucha, the struggle for that
spirit. His life shows it. It’s beautiful. Sad. But beautiful.” Another quick
pause before he continued, “Money will always play a role in art. But the
question every artist has to ask themselves, it’s the task of every artist, is:
‘Am I doing this—creating a work—for the spirit of art, or am I creating this
for money, and if so, does it still capture the essence of my artistic spirit?’
Meaning does that Geist of Art still present itself in the art—commercial or
not. I think the biggest issue a lot of ‘artists’ these days cannot distinguish
between making art that can be sold for a profit, and profiting from art.” He
gestured to the essay on his desk. “Look at your peers and most of the student
body here at the university. Most of these artists
are being subsidized by wealthy financiers—aka their parents. Most of them
won’t have jobs in their industry a year from when they graduate. Most of them
don’t care. They are more concerned about making sure they have a Mac,
Starbucks, and a three-hundred-dollar pair of glasses. They have the aesthetics
of art all ass-backwards. It doesn’t make any sense.” He then gestured to his
office. “Hell, ole Mary-Joy bought this place partly because of her religious
fanaticism—even though she’s Catholic and this is Eastern Orthodox, but
whatever—she mostly bought it because it was the ‘artsy’ thing to do. Her
words. ‘Artsy.’ She is the President of the university. Is anyone else slightly
offended by this? No. Not one person.
No one person raises any red flags.” He shrugged. “Well I suppose it is mostly
out of fear. At least I pray it is cowardice, and not total negligence.” He
chuckled, “But do you see what I’m getting at here?” I nodded. A thought was
beginning to form. He had succeeded in planting a notion that would suppurate
in my mind for the next two years. “Art isn’t even art anymore,” he said with a
wry smile. “Art has become artificial.”
On return to the city, I stop in the
local Starbucks, just kiddy-corner to the three monuments. And as I grasp my venti
black eye I begin to let my thoughts wander. If I were to ever come across
Nancy and the town’s board, and the man who created those three hunks of
plaster and metal across the street I imagine what our conversation might
resemble…
NANCY: Well thank you, Vera, for
coming in today on our meeting of Cultural Broadening in Willow Valley Creek.
Your mother said you were a highly talented artist in the Art World, and so we,
of course, value your opinion. I’m sure you’ve noticed our town’s latest
addition just this year. The three cultural, artistic superlatives that are on
display on River Boulevard: the Oil Rods, the Bison-tennial [scattered giggles],
and the Tree Squirrel Eating a Nut. All created by our wonderful local artist:
Todd Pennington, who is here with us today [applause]. And I would just like to
make one final note for the record that it is an honor to have graduated with
someone who is such a well-known artist now, around the world, like Vera. I
think it would be safe to say that Vera and I were good friends throughout high
school. But please, Vera, I think you have something you would like to share
with the community.
ME: Yes. Thank you. I’d like to make
a resolution to remove those three pieces from the corner of River Boulevard
and have them disposed of, never to be seen by man, woman, or child—ever again.
[Silence]
BOARD: But… why?
NANCY: Yes why?
ME: Because it’s not very good.
BOARD: Well that’s all open to
interpretation though.
ME: Right… but I’m from the art
community, and those three things out there make me want to gouge my eyes out.
I’m ashamed to admit I create anything remotely close to the term “art” knowing
that those three items exist in the world and are being associated with that
same term.
NANCY: I’m not sure I, or we
understand.
ME: Of course not.
NANCY: Would you mind explaining
further?
ME: Sure. The things—
NANCY: Art.
ME: Well actually that’s my point.
Those things, those objects out there really aren’t “art.” [gasps] I know that
might sound ludicrous.
BOARD: It certainly does.
NANCY: We have the artist right
here.
TODD: Hello.
ME: Hi. Right. Yeah. Where was I?
Yeah, so my point is that those things aren’t really art. They are just things.
You paid to have three things put out
next to the intersection, and you’ve decided to call them art. But they’re not.
You see?
BOARD: Why not?
NANCY: Yes why not?!
ME: Well… for one, I think the very
purpose of their existence, the inception of the “art” in many ways deflates
the legitimacy of calling them art. Get it?
NANCY: No!
BOARD: Not at all. Please explain.
ME: [sigh] So the whole reason you
wanted those things out on display was because you wanted to appear artistic.
NANCY: Cultured.
ME: Same difference.
NANCY: Actually it’s not.
BOARD: We did a study, and people in
Willow Valley Creek actually believe there is a difference. Being artistic is
one way people believe they are becoming more cultured.
NANCY: Exactly.
ME: But you are trying to appear as
if you have artistic savvy, aka “are cultured.”
BOARD: There are many aspects to
being cultured.
ME: Sure. But the fact that you are
attempting to come off as artistic is the same difference as attempting to come
off cultured. You are still trying to create an imagine—
NANCY: You can have artistic taste
and still not be cultured. Such as: you can enjoy the fine art of Picasso, but
still not enjoy finer cuisines, or the fine theaters, or politics, and… uh…
others…
ME: First of all, Picasso was not
fine art. Secondly, when you make an attempt to give others the impression you
are artistic that—why am I even arguing with you over semantics?! This is not
my point!
BOARD: Please calm down.
NANCY: Yes, please do.
ME: Those three things out there are
frauds. [gasps]
NANCY: Are you trying to say that…
Mr. Pennington’s works of art are… counterfeits?
BOARD: Is that what this is about?
NANCY: Are those your pieces of art,
Vera? Did you create them and he stole them? [more gasps]
ME: What? No.
NANCY: Is this true, Todd?
TODD: They certainly aren’t. I
created those myself.
NANCY: Vera?
ME: That’s not what I meant.
BOARD: Well you should apologize to
Mr. Pennington then.
ME: [deeper sigh] What I am trying
to say is that those items out on River are deceptions. They are not art. It is
just a collection of plaster and metal under the guise of “art.” But it is
actually not art. This is all a sham.
BOARD: But we had an artist create
it.
NANCY: Yes. Mr. Pennington is right
here.
TODD: Hello.
ME: Hi.
TODD: Maybe I can clear this all up.
I think there is some anger over my pieces. I understand. They are provocative
in many ways. Some people will never truly understand where I get my
inspiration from and how my methods pay off in the end for the artistic
community. Some people, I know, were shocked by my art. I understand. But I
will not apologize for it. Never. Art must be free to reach out and grasp for
the truth. And the community board members here all believe in that and want to
support those kinds of thoughts about Art. I think they see the wonder I created,
and see the art for what it truly is and stands for: the cultural depths of
Willow Valley Creek. [applause]
NANCY: Exactly.
BOARD: So perhaps you have a better
appreciation for our art now.
NANCY: Yes, perhaps you do now,
Vera.
ME: No! You don’t even care about
art! You just want to come across as artistic, so you can combat claims about
this generic, guileless, shithole of Midwestern white suburbia and suggest it
has some fucking culture to it—which, incidentally, it doesn’t! And you [turning to Todd] you’re the worst kind of asshole
out there. You don’t even give a shit about art. About craft or effort. You are
a big fucking con artist. All you do is take dumb, uncultured jerk-off’s money,
who want to appear as if they are sophisticated people, and create this awful soulless-crap-junk-fucking-piss work and pass it off as art! You don’t even have any
sense of art! You’re just as inexperienced as the assholes you sell your hunks
of dick to. Neither of you care about art. You assholes [pointing back to Nancy
and the board] just want to look like you do. And you, you asshole piece of
shit [Todd] you are just in it to earn some money. But you didn’t even earn it! Because you didn’t even take
any legitimate time or effort to actually create something worthwhile! You
didn’t stress over this. There was no authentic thought put behind this. You
just whipped this out of your ass and sold it to these fuck-faces. You’re all
awful, commercialized shitheads. Look at your product! Some cheap, lazily put
together, pieces of artless shit that you’d like to call art because you’re in
a rush to appear sophisticated, you, you ingenuous twats!
…and then I’d storm out.
Or something like that. It never
happens, of course. Instead, I get in my car and drive back to my apartment
downtown—because tomorrow is Monday and classes start at nine.
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