It’s
not everybody who can understand “art.”
It’s not everybody who can understand “creative types.” It’s not everybody who can explain an
enormous Jeff Koons metallic balloon animal or a Jackson Pollock splatter
painting or Van Gogh’s sunflowers or Beethoven’s whatever or the entire body of
work of William Seward Burroughs.
And, in all honesty, this Recent Paterfamilias is only half-way
confident that he understands or can explain “art.” Apart from knowing it when he sees it, that’s about as much
as this R.P. can claim any expertise on the topic at hand.
But
I’ve always likes Jeff Koons’ metallic balloon animals, and after months of
looking for miniature versions of same, I finally stumbled upon some (albeit
not by Koons, nor even openly attributed to Koons’ influence) at the San
Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMoMA) online gift shop.
Quickly,
I picked a color (yellow—they only come in yellow and purple) and I placed my
online order.
A
week later, it came in the mail.
It
came broken. The nub tail had
snapped off. I lodged my
complaint. SFMoMA’s gift shop was
full of apologies and agreed to ship out a new one post haste, and they
suggested that I simply discard of the damaged one and enjoy my new foot long
fake balloon animal dog when it came in the mail.
But
why discard of the other broken dog, simply because he is broken? It seemed like such a waste.
Then
the Recent Paterfamilias had an idea.
A good idea. An inspired
idea.
The
little dog’s tail was broken. He
had a boo-boo. He needed a
Band-Aid.
So,
I put one on.
Then
the R.P. had another idea. Another
great idea. And this idea was even
better than his first idea.
Don’t use just a regular Band-Aid. Use a
“fancy” Band-Aid.
So,
off I went to the store.
Dora
the Explorer? No. Hello Kitty? No. Snoopy and
the Gang? No.
And
then there he was. Staring me
right in the face. In a
collectors’ series of Band-Aids, of all things. Mickey the Mouse, assorted.
I
bought six boxes.
After
application, I felt my small dog also needed a clear coating of some sort (to
prevent UV damage, as well as saving my Koons-esque canine from becoming a
dusty disgusting mess).
Krylon
makes a Clear Gloss Acrylic Spray Coating that worked out rather
splendidly.
But,
as this Recent Paterfamilias does not have an art studio of his very own (at
least not yet), he was forced to apply his topical acrylic application
outside. In the open. On the street.
Now,
naturally, this drew no small amount of attention from passersby on our block’s
busy sidewalk, but this attention allowed the R.P. the opportunity to ponder
upon our public’s varied takes and opinions on “art” and so-called “creative
types,” as well as get some insight into the artistic palate of the everyday
everyman.
More
than a few people passing by, when asked by their kids in tow, “What’s that? What’s he doing? What’s it supposed to be?” responded by saying, “I don’t know,
it’s weird, keep walking, don’t look at him, let’s go.” And off they went, home to their dinner.
A
couple of kids came over and asked what I was doing. I told them.
They nodded. They looked to
their parents. Their parents
nodded. They looked back toward
me. They asked why. I said, “It’s art.”
They said, “Oh. That’s
cool.” And off they went, home to
their dinner.
A
couple of drunk middle-aged “business types” asked if what I was doing was
going to go “Vroooosh!” I said
that I didn’t know what that meant.
They asked if it was going to take off and fly away. I told them that it wasn’t a bird. This must have suited and amused them,
for they nodded and chuckled, and off they went, home to their dinner.
Now,
I don’t know if it’s “art.” It may
look like art. It may even look
like pop art. It might also look
like kitsch. But it also looks
like, and acts like, exactly that for which I’d intended it to look and act
like—a door stop to keep the doggy door on the doggy gate closed so that our
dear little doggy (let’s call him Tedward) doesn’t go tearing out of our
bedroom on any little whim in the middle of the night and starting barking his
little doggy head off just because some person is out in the common
hallway.
But no matter what my little
Koons-ish art dog may or may not look like, I do know that he offered me a little glimpse into the creative views
of many a local New Yorker on that afternoon. (And, I must say, the views on creativity were largely
unfavorable for “creative types”—nobody likes to get heckled by their neighbors
and intoxicated bankers and crotchety octogenarians—although, admittedly, the
crotchety octogenarians in my neighborhood will heckle just about anybody for
just about anything for just about any reason, on just about any excuse, and
after just about enough of this nonsense, it’s just about enough to make a
Paterfamilias want to start heckling back.)
