Sunday, March 25, 2007

Indulging my passion for 'outsider art' is proving more and more difficult.

I'm often told by the common herd - those putterers and cultural agnostics who come to my place of business to simper and snivel over their intensely ordinary lives - that my taste in art is jejune at best and moronic at worst. I have a few pieces of fine art on my walls, pieces that would to the uninitiated fall into the handy mental waste-basket labelled 'modern' - although I consider such a mundane term cannot capture the glory of, say, Klesowsky's Five Litres Of My Own Spunk In A Tin Bucket, which I leave open by my desk on top of a small plinth as the artist intended.

(My one concession to the almost pathetically gauche sentiments of those mendicants who call themselves my patients is the occasional spritz of Forest Glade, to somewhat mollify the fascinating olfactory landscape that wafts upwards from the bucket, the repellent nature of the odour after three years on display making it only more provocative a piece of art in my eyes. But I digress.)

Mr Dibny himself often criticised my taste in art. He constantly repeated Edith Wharton's famous criticism of the modernists and post-modernists, that they showed an unhealthy dread of... no, no, I'm misremembering. What did he say? Ah yes - he constantly told me that I could suck it. Also, Klesowsky could suck it, Damien Hearst already did suck it and anyone else I thought was in any way good at art was a useless, talentless asshole who could suck it dry. In hell.

Ralph had a habit of cutting to the heart of such matters that lesser critics would do well to imitate.

'Outsider art' like Klesowsky's being my particular passion, I decided to alleviate my guilt at the shocking way I treated the late Mr Hrudnyev - little knowing at the time that his corpse was at that moment cooling in two separate freezer units - by doing a little shopping on eBay last Monday. Little was I to know that the most sublime item I had ever chanced across was even then going under the virtual hammer!

Tornado Man Dreaming! Even the name, with it's kitsch-hip faux-aboriginal stylings, sent a shiver down my spine. I had to know more! Unfortunately some sort of virus was attacking eBay's main server, with the result that the bulk of the text was gibberish - 'FDKJL SADFASL DFKSJ' and so on and so forth, almost as though the auctioneers had succumbed to a terrible attack of ennui and simply typed a vast mess of gobbledegook to fill up the space of the page. So all I had was the name of the piece and a picture - but what a picture!

The emotionless red head, standing atop a podium of bizarre mechanical parts! It seemed thrown together, almost a parody of what the artist thought a terrible modernist sculpture ought to look like, but it clutched at my heart all the same. I had to possess it! The bidding was lollygagging somewhat, at the miserable sum of twenty dollars and seven cents, but I quickly showed the culturally moribund fools at eBay what was what with a sterling contribution of $500.

I expected the opposition to quail before my superior buying power, but evidently there was one among them - going by the somewhat unprepossessing nom de guerre of yumyumlovelycocktails402 - who recognised what a find was nearly in his grasp. He pushed the bidding up to $1000 and the combat began in earnest.

I was evidently dealing with a connoiseur. Every bid I placed, he doubled, quickly rushing the price to a full six thousand within the space of a few moments. Yumyumlovelycocktails402 was playing with me as the cat plays with the mouse, and I was already at the limit of my resources - unless... dared I think it? Dear Uncle Terry - so old and infirm! I know for a fact that his heart cannot stand much, and he had seven and a half 'grand', as the unwashed say, awaiting me in his will. The stairs at his home are badly in need of repair. It would be a shame if he were to... fall. Yes, a terrible shame. But then - the art would be mine!

Like Faust, I shook the hand of Mephistopheles, and immediately signed Uncle Terry's death warrant by raising the bid to a towering $13,000! More than double the bid as it stood. Uncle Terry would understand - I'd explain it to him in depth before my greater strength hurled him bodily down the spiral staircase, snapping his fragile limbs like matchwood! He would thank me as he tumbled like a rag doll, for giving him the opportunity to perish in the name of art!

At that moment I felt like unto a God - but pride goeth before a fall, and my nemesis yumyumlovelycocktails402 trumped me with a single thousand! My will broke! I was left in the foetal position on the persian rug, sobbing like a child! All my hopes were dashed, broken like so many of Uncle Terry's easily-crushed bones, but eBay offered no words of comfort unless FDJKL SDAFJK translates into 'weep not for the end of your hopeless dream' in some ancient scripture.

Thus, Tornado Man Dreaming left my life, never to return. Perhaps one day I will chance to see it in some private collection and muse wistfully on what might have been. And perhaps one day I will have my revenge on you, yumyumlovelycocktails402. If my time as therapist to the World's Finest Superhero has taught me anything, it is that revenge is delicious and best served cold, like a gazpacho. I will be signalling the waiter of vengeance soon and ordering my starter, yumyumlovelycocktails402. Beware.

And as for you, Uncle Terry, please don't read this journal entry, or if you do, think how much trouble it will be for you to change your will at this late stage.


Blogger Wonder Girl said...

Oh, you were also trying to buy that piece? It's a small multiverse as they say.

My poor, dear friend Traya, who had not even recovered from the horror of seeing her people murdered on CNN in slow motion with instant replay and with Judas Priest's 'Breaking the Law' as the background music - plus the small horror that followed, christened by the Hub City Herald as the "CANNIBAL GOATOCAUST" - just suffered the horrible indignity of seeing the corpse of her robotic dear father desecrated and turned into a macabre piece of art for sale on the Internet, like a crappy Cinemax serial killer thriller made for TV movie.

I am really worried about Traya these days; it's like the universe picked her as its personal punching bag. The last two weeks have been terrible for the poor little thing. She has started to cut herself. Lucky for us, the sharpest thing she owns is a pair of plastic Snoopy scissors and she can barely cut paper with those.

Me and my friends here at the Elias school got together to try to buy her dad's corpse back and finally give him a proper Christian funeral. I made a few bucks with a cake sale, and my friend Greta gave us five bucks, which means she won't be eating lunch for two days. My friend Cissie is technically loaded, but she can't touch her money until she reaches 18, hires a lawyer and sues her mother to give her everything she gained before her mom wastes it all on Asian male prostitutes and booze.

Combined with Traya's college fund, we had ten thousand dollars plus seven bucks and thirty seven cents, a Santa Priscan Peso, two Bialyan Barutmas, two hundred bucks in Monopoly money Star Wars edition, and a piece of paper with a dollar sign painted on. Alas, as you already know that was not enough to purchase the piece.

I have to apologize for my friend Traya. You see, when we knew that we had lost the bid, she grabbed the keyboard and started typing every bialyan swear word she remembered. 'FDKJL SADFASL DFKSJ' for example roughly translates to English as... well, something to do with summoning the ghosts of her ancestors to defecate on the food of your children. The rest of the incoherent combinations of consonants and barely a vowel you saw on your screen are terrible curses, insults, and strange assumptions about your sexual life and the sexual life of your family and all your ancestors concerning many types of farm animals and each other. I never knew little Traya could have such a filthy mouth at her tender age, or that there is a word in bialyan that exactly means "bald mongoloid who gives sexual pleasure to camels with his mouth and anus while wearing a silly looking hat". I believe we can agree that, considering the circumstances, you can forgive her for her little transgression.

We can only hope that whoever mister Yumyumlovelycocktails402 enjoys having the corpse of her father, just as much as we enjoyed him while he was alive. Hopefully more, because he was really tedious.

5:05 PM  
Blogger Green Arrow said...

So you're an art collector, eh, doc? You know, I rather fancy myself to be an afficionado of fine photography, especially of the human form, and even more especially the nude, female form. Sure, sometimes in my collection you might see a nude male human form standing off to the side, but the focus is on the female.

I'm even something of an amateur shutterbug myself! My motif, if you will, is to include myself in my tableaux. Kind of like a buff Alfred Hitchcock. I especially try to cast myself as an accidental participant, as if I've just walked in on the subject's actvities.

As a matter of fact, one of my favourite models was the lovely Sue Dearbon Dibny. Such innocence, yet such experience. Let me know if you are interested in purchasing a print.

By the way: friends of Bialya, I believe I can say that the Bialyan Airlift is finally over. Having airlifted some goatherds from Modora to take care of the goats from Modora, it soon became apparent that the goatherds needed a little more discipline. So I airlifted a squad of officers from the Royal Constabulary of Modora. Then we had to keep the officers in line, so I airlifted some troops from the Special Forces of Modora. Then, to entertain the troops, I airlifted Giorgio Moroder.

5:21 PM  

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