The Business of Art in Sub-Suburban Obscurity Is Next to McDonald’s on Highway 61


My front yard where the perambulators have died.

It is an oxymoron fit for a moron lemonade stand, yet I keep at it, like a duck addicted to quack. Why not? The work trucks pass by with Taylor Swift sound ripples on the wind, as the squirrels re-discover their nuts in the artist garden. There is always hope, and therein lies happiness. Cha-ching! Gagosian the elder discovered me while I was taking out the trash. He asked if I could pencil in a few weeks this fall for a Paris show. I told him flat out “no”, that he’ll have to wait in line behind the family out bike riding their safety helmets and the multiple heart attack man counting his strokes on a fast walk to another dinner of cheese and white bread.

Painters stop, go. No one is buying. No one at all. Can you hear the poleese? They’re beating the crap out of enthusiasm on Highway 61.


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