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Excerpt for Art Class by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Art Class


J. Elk-Baptisté


Smashwords Edition


Copyright 2019


J. Elk-Baptisté


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Art Class




Carry her books


Does she love you

Or love you not?

Sweet, Jeremy Little,

Will you carry her books, her laptop?

Jeez!

Jeez and double jeez!


On behalf of Jeremy I can tell you, he’s happy to carry the girl herself, so long as she smiles the right way.

Boy-oh-boy! She aint no lightweight dancer—she’s good! Everyone knows it--girl’s just brilliant isn’t she!


Carry her ‘cross the ocean to Zanzibar. Yes, Zanzibar, or any number of exotic destinations. Free shipping—express delivery!

Quick now! Before she figures out Jeremy’s deadly-tedious plans could prove so ordinary, so downright boring for her...


As boring as spending time measuring a spotted dog for a three piece suit.

Three piece suit—yes! An identical three piece suit to that worn by the great artist, René Magritte; when he worked on those weird and wacky masterpieces of his.


Will anyone here volunteer to be turned to stone? Can I please have a show of hands? Raise your hands--nice and high now please--if you are willing to participate in a fun experiment for our visiting celebrity artist, the fantastic, René Magritte.


Imagine it. Back from the grave. A bunch of crazies like for instance, Salvador Dali.

And we must not single out Salvador, because it’s just too easy.

There are many fine examples of crazy. Some were so crazy you cannot help but feel for them; hearing of their ordeals and taking matters to heart can have you face down on the carpet weeping tears of blood.


With some you take the imaginative approach. You make it up. But it could be them, couldn’t it?

Shall we give it a try? Here goes nothing.

Let’s try, Cy Twombly.

Now, Cy’s a bit of a treat—even the name, Cy Twombly.

It can seem “made up”. Like something created to suit the image of a T. V. presenter.

A presenter of an afternoon television show. A show for the very young, obviously.

Cy knew this. He was very aware of the name’s appeal. He painted to suit his audience—go ahead—deny it. You can’t can you? Experiencing difficulty? Of course you are.

The big Galatea pictures are very beautiful though, aren’t they?


But, Cy … try doing it with your eyes open. Nah, go on—just continue doing what your doing—you had it figured right, all along.

Heaven is where Cy is.

There’s proof: Truly I tell you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Mathew 18:3.


Imagine them—a multitude of crazy artists--floating around up there, waving their brushes about, making a mess, getting pissed on free wine. Annoying, God. Annoying, Yeshuah/Jesus, getting on Buddha’s tits. Arguing with the Saints; causing as much upset for others as they did down here.


Here’s, Andy! “Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.” Fifteen minutes of fame. Well, he was right, wasn’t he? How did he do that—how could he have known? “Everyone is a psychopath… they are everywhere…” Say, no more, Mister Warhol!

You can find yourself wondering if having said such things, Mister Warhol was actually manifesting them--making them come to pass? Maybe we inhabit a matrix wherein thoughts are things? As far as, “Everyone is a psychopath.” goes, there’s undeniable truth to the statement. You could live in the most isolated spot on the planet and be considered wise for thinking twice before taking yourself out onto the streets. The woods? Forget it. Stick with the indoors. Entertain yourself--buy another book. And again, these individuals are not called creative artists for nothing are they?


Did the first wife of Monet, Camille Doncieux, die of starvation? Really? All those pictures of flowers and the wife dies for lack of sustenance. How come? What went wrong—just asking. And he was such a terrific gardener.


Modigliani—don’t delve. Spare yourself the absolute agony.


Job going!

Girlfriend for, Picasso--anyone?


Let’s cross the channel for a moment and check out the prospects.


Francis Bacon’s mother would know she failed to instill any sense of sane order in her son. Seeing his studio or room, she would have turned quickly away and quietly weeping, bit into her knuckles in despair. If the outside reflects in any way, the internal, then her boy, Francis needed real help. And that is before you trouble yourself by looking at any of his pictures, which by the way, are very tidily made. Jack the Ripper did not demonstrate more precise skill in the execution of a task.


Lucien Freud? Ask his even more celebrated relative. Why not, we’re talking dead people here.


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