The Art And The Ohh! ; A Fable

Sorry for the bad news

I hate to tell you all, but I have some bad news; I’m deceased. No wait, that’s not right, I should have said Mr. Ohh! is dead. Wait that’s too harsh. Mr. Ohh! has shuffled off this mortal coil, is now singing with the angels, and no longer has to pay taxes. Yea that’s right. So now, all my, oops, HIS, works of comedic brilliance are worth much, much more money, perhaps millions. How’s that for a press release?

If you want to hear me read this Press Play If not read on

For those of you who’ve been following these posts, as if they were the teachings of a great sage, you’ll probably have figured out I’m not really dead. If you still think I am, well cry for a while, and then send over your life savings to the family, and we’ll buy flowers. If you still have some cash left over, you’ll be happy to know that there’s this Nigerian prince who wants to send all his earthly wealth to America. If you send him five-hundred dollars to cover the fees, he’ll send you ten million when it gets here. Coincidentally, you would send that cash to me, oops, my family as well.

Actually It’s more artsy news

You may be wondering why I started my post this way? Frankly, I’m wondering about that as well. The truth is I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, then laziness set in, and I wrote the first thing which came into my head. Maybe I’ve said too much, but now you know the processes of brilliance. You see I was at a cheap art sale the other day and most of the stuff was not very impressive. It’s the same when I go to an art museum, again I’m not much of a fan. I’m not judging your fandom. If, you like the great works, more power to you. It’s just not my thing.

That being said, art is everywhere. There are large works of sculpture outside of buildings in most major cities. Some very famous ones, like the Picasso in front of the Daley Plaza, or The Bean, both in Chicago. In office buildings, there’s abstract art hanging all over the walls. The local hospital actually has an art collection. This is supposed to be aesthetic and relaxing while folks are waiting. I prefer the terms, mind-numbing, and confusing, but that’s just me.

Again, I’m not saying what should bring you pleasure. Please don’t beat me up. I say this because a friend of my son, Archie, accosted me a while back for being critical of artists, and sort of did beat me up saying, “How can you be critical of artists? For heaven’s sake you’re an artist yourself.” I tried to tell him, I’m not critical of artists. How can you be critical of a group of folks who just confuse the snot out of you. Women confuse me, and I’ve mentioned it several times, but I’m far from disapproving of them. In fact, I think about them a lot, wearing paint, or leaves and feathers, and very little else. All right, perhaps I’ve said too much, but the point is I like women even though I don’t understand the things they do.

Actually it’s more Me news

One thing Archie did say caught me off guard. He said I was an artist. How did that happen? I am an observer and reporter of idiots. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. I could be called a story teller, because of my work telling stories to kids. You have to admit that one was easy to see. I never wear black, a French beret, or speak in an unintelligible accent which comes from nowhere. I live in a nice house, not a loft in the slums of Paris, and I rarely drink hard liquor from a tin cup covered in paint splatters. Also, I don’t have seven mistresses following me around acting as a muse. I kind of wish I did, much to the chagrin of my wife. We won’t go into the whole insane, or not. Those tests were inconclusive.

Then I went to this writing seminar, and the main speaker defined all of us there as artists. Apparently black berets, and numerous cigarettes aren’t a requirement. Who knew? I am an artist because I write, and all writers, “Pull from a wellspring of emotions mixed with imagination, to create a reality where they either live, or would like to see others live in.” Wow, that’s heavy duty. Personally, I’d like to create a reality in which I had a billion dollars in ready cash, but then I learned suffering is all part of the whole art thing. Why? It was never explained. It just is.

Another thing about being an artist is that you have to find your voice. I’ve seen a lot a lot of paintings in my time, but I’ve never heard one say anything. Conceivably, this is the reason I don’t have the appreciation other folks do. I do know you can’t hear the voice of a painting on your computer. After the seminar, I brought up a picture of the Mona Lisa, and she wasn’t saying nothing. She just sat there and smiled, no voice at all.  So, now I have I have to find my voice. Okay, I found it. Pretty easily actually. It comes out of my mouth every time I open it. If you’re reading this post you only need press the listen button above and you can find it too.

Actually It may not be news at all

Then there’s the whole emotion and imagination part of it. I’m having a bit of trouble with this. In most of my posts I’m usually angry at something so the emotion’s there, and it doesn’t take much imagination to see why. Then again, I’m often confused. Is this an emotion? Or am I imagining my confusion? Is it possible, I want to change my reality to a world where I’m less confused? By the world at large? Or just something specific like; Why do chefs take the time and trouble to stuff meat inside ravioli. It tastes exactly the same when it’s on the outside.

The toughest part about being an artist came not from the seminar, but from the art sale I told you about. To my untrained eye, a lot of it looked like the work of Van Gogh, Pollack, and Rembrandt, but it certainly wasn’t commanding the same prices. The stuff was selling for around twenty bucks. The simple issue is that, Ellie Simpson is far less dead than Claude Monet. The more complicated issue is Irwin Kowalski just isn’t as cool of a name as Pablo Picasso. Between these two issues, the artists of the sale have to produce a lot more stuff to become great masters.

I mean Edgar Degas only did 626 paintings and lived okay. Assuming he painted for thirty years that’s only twenty-one paintings a year. At twenty bucks a painting, a current artist would only make $420 a year. That wouldn’t cover the cleaning bill for the berets.

Go back to your lives, There’s no news here

Therefore, I’m faking my death. I’ll be able to emotionally imagine my billion-dollar artist reality, while I’m still here.

I guess that’s not very artist like. Is it?

How about a cup?

Hey everyone, before you go I just need one more minute of your time. Do you like my stuff? If you do, we should get together for coffee. That’s probably not possible so why not buy me a cup of coffee to show how you feel. It’s real easy just click below. Thanks a bunch for reading and listening



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