I am interested in working with French gallerists who would allow some attic space for my wife and I in 2019. Just room, maybe board, and available wall space in blanc to show the wealthy cosmopolite who stops by to inquire about art and artist. I am in earnest.
All France is welcome to apply for my residency, but Paris would be lovely. I feel in my heart that it would offer more respect for my Oster® blender ego than Anytown U.S.A. and its ever-present garage sale where I hang my latest work (to color the wall above the rusty mattock which I thought was a pick-ax). Got schooled again! This time by a dog lover. He dug a hole by hand once too. To bury his recently deceased mastiff. He didn’t use a mattock, duh! The ground wasn’t that rough. A pick ax was sufficient tool for seven feet down and a dead dog slightly larger than an overweight Walmart people greeter.
The garage sale was a huge success. Almost three hundred dollars for knick-knacks mostly, which also included fifty cents for a 30-year old pail of sand! The art—recent, colorful, expressive—hung beside the garlic and onions, glazed over by all eyes quicker than the children’s educational books and toys. Not even a “Who painted that?”, or “Did you actually write all these books?” Even the retired English professor next door showed no interest at all—not one glance at the Henry Miller book I was reading. An original London publication to boot!
Pardon my French France, but in this current state of disunion, we adhere to one motto, and one motto only:
Money talks. Bull shit gets bought.
Please visit my private, paid for website, and begin making offers to your lovely attics. Thank you.