Dubois Pennsylvania is to Hillbillies what Williamsburg Brooklyn is to Hipsters — a Mecca of insulated culture with its own language, fashion, attitude and values. Both populations share a common love, however.
Tattoos.
The prevailing themes for each province are considered different by both. That said, thousands of canvas owners can be heard, in either place, requesting a “flying tiger engulfed in flames, with a single eyeball hovering above its right paw, surrounded by angels playing Zen flutes, all wrapped in a tribal design.”
A Brit’s screed
Yesterday, I watched a ten minute YouTube screed by a Brit who hates contemporary art to the point that I felt sorry for him — and I’m a guy who struggles with compassion. His distress was loud, extended and, to me, hilarious, which would probably have made him apoplectic if he’d witnessed my crying.
The experience was preceded by a social media faux pas I made recently. At Sotheby’s, within the last several months, a Minimalist painting by Barnett Newman sold for $44 million. I discovered the sale while scrolling Zuckerberg’s soul. An acquaintance’s post linked to an article about the artwork and the price. The most prominent and common theme among numerous comments was the price paid.
The comments were, well…American.
American?
Yes. American. Our culture, more than any other on the planet, attaches a value to every asset — a house, a shoe, a can of soup. We love both depreciation and appreciation so long as we are on the side that benefits.
Everything — everything — gets compared to something we understand personally. Our penchant for the free market, and the psychology of the contrary, is a case in point. Stand too far above your peers and one can be assured that they will tear you down. Alternatively, offer a self-deprecating remark about precisely the same topic for which they would tear you down and they will assure you that you are far better than your remark supposes. In a country where hard work is valued above all else, how could it be otherwise?
All art is shite
The Brit contends that the overwhelming majority of contemporary artwork, with an emphasis on conceptual art, is, to use his word, “shite”. He pointed to a specific artwork that was, in fact, three canisters of shit, so it’s hard to defend that particular piece. That said, I am giddy at the possibility that he either: a) went looking for the canisters to support his belief or b) was scrolling through Facebook and was presented with a GIF of somebody putting three canisters of shit on a pedestal in a London Gallery — with a hefty price tag.
Forghorn Leghorn incarnate
I worked in a car dealership, selling cars, in the past. Our finance manager was six foot, five-inches of crunchy-haired, parochial, obnoxious Jello. Monotone and constantly exasperated to the extreme, his diatribes were bathed in a megaphone-shaped mist of sweated cheesesteak grease and tunnel-vision. Never was he wrong about anything; especially his observation that all art is “gay”.
When he found out that I was an artist, in the context of proving that he was right about art, he would run across the showroom at me, like a bull running the streets of Pamplona, his fist holding his iPhone at arm’s length, with a piece of “modern” art on the screen. Like a dangling penis in his bloated hand, his phone offered proof, in his mind, that every painting is a rigid member waiting to attack a hungry anus.
His ideas were surreal and I know a hundred people just like him. He’s not a Hillbillie, but it’s good to have goals.
Last week at the Philadelphia Art Museum
I was standing in the Arensburg collection, in front of the Salvador Dali painting shown here — Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War). Two retired couples drifted through the galleries as if following me on a moving sidewalk at the airport. The wives were chatting and giving each piece some attention. Both husbands were far from ambivalent. Each artwork was more egregious than the preceding. Clearly, they were onto the scam in a way only the Brit’s screed could ever be.
They too remarked that the entire museum was gay. And, in fact, that all contemporary art was a scam. Their tattoos were old but spectacular — and expensive if commissioned today.
After hearing the husbands’ discourse for ten minutes, I stopped to listen and watch, with an instinct that Dali’s Surrealism might attract them. It did. Hillbillies, truck drivers, high-school students, intellectuals, farmers, mechanics and fast food workers all love Salvador Dali.
In particular, in the above painting, the “hand grabbing the boob” appealed to their die-hard heterosexuality. As did the feeling that the image was a dream that either could have had — and probably did the night before.
Of course, both wondered what the artwork was worth. But, for a minute, before they compared it to a house, a shoe or a can of soup, they actually saw the work and enjoyed it on a visceral level. The image took them outside themselves.
Because the work skipped within a stone’s throw of each of their imaginations, its value as art was justified. Because each might consider tattooing the image on their forearm or back, the art wasn’t a scam.
And, if they would allow an artist to lean on them, skin to skin, with an a elbow in the small of their back, while jabbing a needle into their flesh thousands of times, just so they could sit in McDonald’s the next day with their retired friends, able to lift their shirt to showcase a painting worth ten million dollars, owned for less than $500, then it definitely wasn’t gay.
I love Salvador Dali. I’m from Dubois.
Newsletter: Sugary candy for the soul
I don’t teach, preach or sell hard. I do send out silly ten second stories about people, places and things.
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November 2022
1
- Nov 24, 2022 The scroll of Kerouac's soul Nov 24, 2022
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October 2022
1
- Oct 3, 2022 A brother helping me remain in light Oct 3, 2022
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September 2022
1
- Sep 1, 2022 Ten things to never say to a new car salesperson Sep 1, 2022
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August 2022
1
- Aug 1, 2022 The question of an evolving identity made whole by street artists and vandals Aug 1, 2022
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July 2022
1
- Jul 4, 2022 The warmth of knowing my baseball glove is in the sweater drawer Jul 4, 2022
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June 2022
1
- Jun 2, 2022 Sonny Rollins standing on the bridge in Giverny Jun 2, 2022
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May 2022
1
- May 1, 2022 Sitting in front of forever May 1, 2022
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April 2022
1
- Apr 2, 2022 A temple, a church, a synagogue or an artist’s studio? Apr 2, 2022
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March 2022
1
- Mar 2, 2022 Foghorn Leghorn inside the flower garden of the mind Mar 2, 2022
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February 2022
1
- Feb 6, 2022 My first cup of Tibetan butter tea Feb 6, 2022
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January 2022
1
- Jan 4, 2022 Dancing is better with a corn dog in each hand Jan 4, 2022
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December 2021
1
- Dec 1, 2021 Even Edgar Degas made mistakes Dec 1, 2021
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November 2021
1
- Nov 2, 2021 Running shoes, rhetoric, hyperbole and the dog with the human head Nov 2, 2021
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October 2021
1
- Oct 2, 2021 Still life painting at 36 Via Fondazza Oct 2, 2021
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September 2021
1
- Sep 19, 2021 True creative genius Sep 19, 2021
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August 2021
1
- Aug 17, 2021 "Sometimes you need to just lay on the sidewalk and bleed for a little bit" Aug 17, 2021
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July 2021
1
- Jul 12, 2021 Dozens of worn-out couches in a true art house Jul 12, 2021
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June 2021
1
- Jun 14, 2021 Daft Punk Frida Jun 14, 2021
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May 2021
1
- May 17, 2021 Eating cake in a cemetery May 17, 2021
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April 2021
1
- Apr 8, 2021 Mindfulness, meditation, a drum circle and the yellow doves of Mount Airy Apr 8, 2021
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March 2021
1
- Mar 9, 2021 That diner in Brighton Mar 9, 2021
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February 2021
1
- Feb 17, 2021 Tibet via North Philadelphia Feb 17, 2021
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January 2021
1
- Jan 11, 2021 Bukowski is family Jan 11, 2021
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December 2020
1
- Dec 23, 2020 Mindfulness, meditation, parking meters, poems, love notes and library books Dec 23, 2020
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November 2020
1
- Nov 16, 2020 Six tongues and the sugar face Nov 16, 2020
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October 2020
1
- Oct 20, 2020 Tequila, cops and grace Oct 20, 2020
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September 2020
1
- Sep 25, 2020 Feeling the machinery Sep 25, 2020
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August 2020
1
- Aug 17, 2020 The futile fury of a final letter Aug 17, 2020
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July 2020
1
- Jul 4, 2020 It all begins with the word Jul 4, 2020
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June 2020
1
- Jun 19, 2020 Hate in the abstract. Love in the specific. Jun 19, 2020
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May 2020
1
- May 19, 2020 Dirty hands drawing a circle May 19, 2020
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April 2020
3
- Apr 19, 2020 A singularity built from many pieces Apr 19, 2020
- Apr 14, 2020 Resurgent feelings and the Bowery's Blitzkrieg Bopper Apr 14, 2020
- Apr 5, 2020 Channeling my inner Iggy for the third time Apr 5, 2020
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March 2020
1
- Mar 24, 2020 A golden eagle's echo will carry forever Mar 24, 2020
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February 2020
3
- Feb 21, 2020 Seven crappy poems Feb 21, 2020
- Feb 11, 2020 Words from the white space Feb 11, 2020
- Feb 5, 2020 Bursting between the beasts Feb 5, 2020
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January 2020
6
- Jan 30, 2020 Mindfulness, meditation and the Yah-Yah contraption figure Jan 30, 2020
- Jan 22, 2020 The Beastie Boys, potato salad, the number 12 and a phone call from a Buddhist monk Jan 22, 2020
- Jan 16, 2020 Mindfulness, meditation, nevermindishness and nothingness Jan 16, 2020
- Jan 8, 2020 Glibquip Jan 8, 2020
- Jan 6, 2020 DeSoi versus Hemingway Jan 6, 2020
- Jan 5, 2020 Hating happy cats Jan 5, 2020
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December 2019
6
- Dec 31, 2019 Baked beans and ice cream Dec 31, 2019
- Dec 27, 2019 Zen and the little blue box Dec 27, 2019
- Dec 20, 2019 About the power of symbols Dec 20, 2019
- Dec 13, 2019 Obscure references lend credibility, especially when you make them up Dec 13, 2019
- Dec 9, 2019 Three fingers tickling the air Dec 9, 2019
- Dec 5, 2019 Sunday dinner at the DiGiulios Dec 5, 2019
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November 2019
11
- Nov 26, 2019 One man's silly secret to writing an online dating profile Nov 26, 2019
- Nov 20, 2019 Burning man at Burning Man Nov 20, 2019
- Nov 18, 2019 A didgeridoo full of goo Nov 18, 2019
- Nov 16, 2019 Two thousand words from the future Nov 16, 2019
- Nov 14, 2019 Every scar is cool Nov 14, 2019
- Nov 12, 2019 Daily affirmations and anonymous encouragement taped to the back of a stop sign Nov 12, 2019
- Nov 10, 2019 Willem de Kooning’s women have jacked-up teeth Nov 10, 2019
- Nov 8, 2019 Flames, bikers, bras, jaws, Jack, Lemmy and liquor Nov 8, 2019
- Nov 6, 2019 I met a German vegetarian in an Italian butcher shop Nov 6, 2019
- Nov 4, 2019 Art + money + object = fetish Nov 4, 2019
- Nov 2, 2019 Ferried on the fingertip wings of an angel Nov 2, 2019
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October 2019
12
- Oct 31, 2019 Cyclops @ night Oct 31, 2019
- Oct 29, 2019 Nietzsche was wrong about almost everything Oct 29, 2019
- Oct 27, 2019 A singular reason to hate social media Oct 27, 2019
- Oct 25, 2019 Mindfulness, meditation, chance and The Village Vanguard Oct 25, 2019
- Oct 23, 2019 Umbilical Oct 23, 2019
- Oct 21, 2019 The curve of a single elegant line Oct 21, 2019
- Oct 19, 2019 Five Boro Flamingo Oct 19, 2019
- Oct 17, 2019 Mistress and wife to the same musician Oct 17, 2019
- Oct 15, 2019 A python named Tom and a Toyota test drive Oct 15, 2019
- Oct 13, 2019 Sweetie pie and the sugary fire Oct 13, 2019
- Oct 9, 2019 A great artist doesn't need to leave a single great artwork in his wake Oct 9, 2019
- Oct 7, 2019 Eleven effective ways to control the tempo of negotiations with a car salesperson Oct 7, 2019
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September 2019
2
- Sep 28, 2019 What to expect from the dealer trade vehicle evaluation Sep 28, 2019
- Sep 24, 2019 Three stories being told at once Sep 24, 2019
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August 2019
1
- Aug 24, 2019 Thirty years away from the Blues Aug 24, 2019
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July 2019
4
- Jul 22, 2019 Ten hours in Madrid Jul 22, 2019
- Jul 11, 2019 When life slows down to let you take a look Jul 11, 2019
- Jul 6, 2019 The Buddhist Manager Jul 6, 2019
- Jul 2, 2019 The perfect, hopeful, subversive headbanger Jul 2, 2019
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June 2019
8
- Jun 27, 2019 Scribbleheads Jun 27, 2019
- Jun 24, 2019 Myth of the Knotdog Jun 24, 2019
- Jun 19, 2019 Dream of the Zen Blue Hat Jun 19, 2019
- Jun 16, 2019 Sleeping dogs and the power of forgiveness Jun 16, 2019
- Jun 12, 2019 Skate Hog Jun 12, 2019
- Jun 9, 2019 I type with two middle fingers Jun 9, 2019
- Jun 5, 2019 Hillbillies love Salvador Dali Jun 5, 2019
- Jun 1, 2019 The single most important thing a prospective Fordham University parent needs to know Jun 1, 2019
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May 2019
3
- May 31, 2019 The accidental copywriter May 31, 2019
- May 28, 2019 Five 70s albums every Millennial should listen to this weekend May 28, 2019
- May 15, 2019 Five secrets to writing a moving love letter May 15, 2019