hen there’s this. You get a phone call from a friend you haven’t talked to in a while. He wants to know how you are doing but before you can even answer begins a long winded monologue about his sciatica, his lousy job, his terrible next door neighbor and something about the government.
Eventually he stops to breathe and you have a chance to talk about your cats or your art work or your hernia, but before you can finish he interrupts, “I know exactly what you’re talking about. The very same thing happened to me,” and he’s off and running again.
You realize the only way to get a word in edgewise is to talk over the friend. But he just starts talking louder and you talk louder and pretty soon the two of you are having a shouting match.
Well, that’s not working so you try the opposite approach and say nothing, just throwing in an occasional “yes” or “I know” to let him know you’re still alive. After a while even that gets tiring and you go stone cold silent.
Finally the friend recognizes that you are not agreeing with him about the high cost of his hip replacement and the jerk who cut him off on the way to Publix. Taking a concerned tone for the first time in the conversation, he asks:
“You’re not saying much today. Are you feeling ok?”
“What did you say? I can’t understand you. You’re mumbling again.Oh, you want breakfast. Why didn’t you say so, instead of pacing back and forth like that.
OK, you don’t have to get all pouty about it. I wish someone would wait on me like I wait on you. I’m really getting tired of it.
Yeah, I know you can’t cook. Every day you remind me of it. And another thing, could you please stop making those noises when you eat. It’s irritating.
Yes, I know about your condition. Just eat already, while I finish the laundry.
OK, once again I can’t hear you. I’m in the laundry room. What? Yes, I fluff dried your precious pillow. You know, the next time you decide to get sick, just maybe be near the toilet like everyone else. This stain is just not coming out.
No, I’m certainly not making light of your condition. I’m just saying….
Now wait a minute, what’s my mother got to do with this? Well, how could she know you’re allergic to tuna?
Why are you looking at me like that?
Oh, so now it’s the silent treatment. Look, I’ve just about had it with you. I’m getting out of here for a while.
All right, I thought that would get your attention. Where am I going? Where do I always go Tuesday afternoon? The grocery store of course.
Oh, don’t start on that again. I did not forget you last week or the week before. OK, smart aleck, here’s the grocery list. What’s the very first item? That’s right, Kibbles! I rest my case!"
keep having this recurring dream where I’m in a fascinating conversation with Andre, that great wisdom teacher from the movie My Dinner With Andre.
In this episode we’re talking about cats and not those funny snuggly pets we see on Facebook. Andre takes a sip of champagne and leans forward.
“No, I’m talking about cats as these wise spiritual beings who have been sent back to this material dimension.”
“But why and by whom?” I interrupt.
“Well, this is what I think. There are these highly evolved Elders, who are special beings existing in the ethereal dimension and whose sole purpose is to teach us abiding and unconditional love. Their helpers on this mission are cats who are sent back here as messengers
Andre glances around and leans in closer. “But here’s the thing. I don’t think they’re as much messengers as they are mirrors.”
“Mirrors? I don’t get it."
“Don’t you see? Cats teach us by becoming mirrors for what we need to deal with in our lives. They throw-up on the kitchen floor and become a mirror for our anger. They can’t decide whether to come in or go out and become a mirror for our impatience.
Doris and I once had a beautiful rescue tabby we named Chloe. Well, Chloe had this habit of running off every time we let her outside. Hours would pass and we became very anxious. We drove all over the neighborhood, asking everyone if they had seen her. But when we returned home still anxious and now exhausted, there was Chloe waiting for us on the back steps.
It took a long time but we finally realized that Chloe’s roaming habit was a mirror for our anxiety about losing control. After that we let Chloe do what she wanted to and we learned a lesson in trust.”
“But what happened to Chloe?”
“Eventually she ran off and didn’t come back. We asked around and posted photos but somehow knew that she would not be returning. Doris said she thought Chloe’s job here was done and she had reported back to the Elders."
or many years I participated in the Florida outdoor art show circuit. During those years I set up my tent in venues ranging from parking lots and piers to cow pastures and river banks. One of the prettiest shows took place in Tarpon Springs in a park by one of the many bayous that weave through the beautiful city.
And every year I was fortunate to land the same spot right next to the water and under a lovely water oak tree. One of its spreading branches dipped low over the sidewalk, even forcing tall visitors to duck their heads. After a while the tree became the main attraction and more than one person called to their friends that the stately oak should win Best of Show.
Two long time collectors often came to the show in a boat and if I was lucky, they returned home with a piece of my art leaning in the stern. The quirky nature of the Tarpon show always made it fun to do.
But after several years my sales dried up and I began wondering whether I should even participate anymore. For every positive reason there were one or two negative ones; too hard to get to, no parking, no artist dinner, no sales.
During one particularly dismal show I had decided that unless some miracle happened I would not do it again. Sunday afternoon rolled around with only a couple measly sales to show for it and no miracle on the horizon. Against all rules, I decided to start breaking down my art display early. The worst they could do would be to blackball me from the show. Thank you very much.
Around 4:30 I took several small pieces off the wall and leaned them against the display. Maybe I could get a jump on the other artists and say sayonara to Tarpon Springs. Just then, an old acquaintance stopped by to say hello and listen to my moaning about the show.
While we were standing there chatting, he looked past me to my display and broke into a broad grin. I turned just in time to see a dog of indefinite lineage lift its scrawny leg on one of the drawings.
Thus relieved, the cur sauntered off, leaving me, for once, at a loss for words. My acquaintance, when he was able to stop laughing, pointed at the disappearing dog.
“Looks like everybody's a critic!”
bove is an image I recently created and one that I’ve titled Disdain
. Its completion brought some satisfaction but left me with a nagging question. Is it art? Right now I’m not sure it even fits that category. But first allow a brief backstory.
Years ago I pulled a photo from a nature magazine of a smug African Baboon taking the sun. A compelling image, I tucked it away like many other photos for future reference. Some years later I scanned the photo and saved it in a large ‘miscellaneous photos’ folder. There it languished until the other night when I came upon an unusual image posted on Facebook. An artist had edited a photo of a woman in Photoshop by applying a special effect filter. The result resembled an abstract painting and the post comments congratulated the artist on a unique and beautiful work of art.
But was it art or even intended to be art? While pondering that, I remembered the odd baboon photo and decided to try my hand in Photoshop. I am by no means a Photoshop Master, but within a short time had created the above image.
At this early stage, could I dare call it art? Perhaps I could if following Marcel Duchamp’s dictum, “Art is whatever I say is art.” Going further, I might copy the image to a CD, take it to a fine art printer and have a 5’ image printed on canvas. Placed on a museum-wrap stretcher, the work would get a few strokes of oil pigment and voila, it would be done. The mixed-media painting is finally hung in an art gallery with a hefty price tag. On opening night a wealthy wine merchant from Argentina purchases Disdain
for $14,500. Here at last, with conviction, could I dare call it art? Or, at that point, perhaps I should not say a word.
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