A bowl of honey loops in vinegar.
A pot of noodles cooked in palm oil.
An Amala Jam doughnut.
A yellow dot.
A unicorn with a half-eaten corn cob for a horn.
A fountain pen with water for ink.
A river that flowed in two directions at once.
A cat on its back.
A song with with the lyrics sang backwards.
A rotting diamond.
“I am edified!!!”
“This is a brilliant juxtaposition of the elements of nature and humanness in colorful array.”
“The tears of one at war with the socio-cultural ambiguity of today’s terse intelligence.”
I looked at them all, the critics, as they shared their opinions of the art exhibition. They all gave positive reviews, none of them with courage enough to voice his lack of understanding. A glass of expensive wine in each hand, they nodded like lizards and made funny faces in a public show of erudition.
My art was to prove a point.
The art was art alright. Not deep art, not poignant art, and definitely not edifying in any way. It was simply a product of random imagination brilliantly executed. I am an artist renown: A sculptor, a photographer, a chef, a writer and a songwriter. I am successful in all these endeavors. This good fortune of mine translates to goodwill in everything else I do. It is that simple!
“What was the point?”, you may ask.
“Don’t you see it already?”, I would ask in turn.
There is bias in every judgement and very few would tell you how they really feel. Better yet, maybe the critics say what they really feel, maybe my success is a veil over their eyes, so that they cannot see objectively anymore. If you ask any of them what his comments really means, he would launch into an even more equivocal explanation that arrives at no point in particular.
You don’t get it yet?
Ask a simple man who does not know me and therefore does not know that he is expected by society to react in a certain manner. He would tell you that the exhibition does not make any sense whatsoever. He is not shallow, he is honest.
“What is the point?”, you still ask?
Read tomorrow’s papers. On the front page, I would tell the world a story.
The story of an artist who’s real art was to watch people make a fool of themselves, acting out the dog-eared script of ‘tag-along’ because society expects them to . The fools of this joke are the ones everybody thinks wise. The ones who even more so, think themselves wise.