Tom dinning
Registrant*
Don't get excited. I'm not here to annoy anyone. Just to let you know I have had a revelation. It came in a dream. Kylie was there but that's incidental. Someone asked me what I 'did'. "I'm an artist" I replied, sipping on my well chilled glass of chard and smoking a French cigarette in a long golden holder.
Hang on, I thought. I don't drink or smoke. That left the artist bit to grapple with. Something had to be real about this dream of mine. Kylie looked real enough but kept vanishing with every nudge from Christine.
I lay awake staring into the dark where the ceiling aught to be and contemplated the idea of being an artist. I thought of an acquaintance who lives in borderline poverty, grapples with bi-polar disorder, washes about as often as I mow the lawn, who's only company is the wildlife that lives in his dreadlocks, and complains that no-one ever understands him. He calls himself an artist. Then I contemplated the life of Henson, who sips the champagne of life with the directors of many galleries, considers shock as the new black and spends a fortune on looking scruffy enough to pass as one of us.
"One of us" I repeated to Kylie who had returned from the bedroom wearing something comfortable.
"One of who?" She asked as she slipped onto the couch next to me like a cat looking for a place to sleep.
"Us! You and me and the other bloke. The people from the suburbs of life who have mortgages and eat at Makka's from time to time and drive cars that are more than 5 years old and go shopping with their spouse on Sunday and consider it a big day out. All those people out there who live the daily humdrum of work, family, friends and the pursuit of happiness, who travel to the far reaches of the planet and to the next bus stop to experience a little of what life can bring, and find along the way a need to communicate in a way they can't find enough words for. They learn to play music, write stories, paint pictures, build statues out of old car parts, dresses from used surgical gloves and houses out of beer bottles. They don't always succeed in their endeavors to speak to others in a more understandable way but they do learn to speak to themselves. They feel good about what they do and about themselves.
A few of these people take up photography. They learn how to use the camera and take pictures. Some do that with gusto. Some have an appeal and are encouraged by the adoring public with their dollars and likes. Some are satisfied with that. Some are not. "I take pictures because I can" isn't quite enough for some. It feels like an unfinished dinner or being woken before you're ready. Those people seek more, something that tells them about themselves. It's an allusive quality that has no definition or boundaries, yet when you find it, there is no other feeling like it.
And here's the funny thing. Stand one of these people next to anyone and you can't tell the difference. Look at their photos and you can't tell the difference. Speak to them and you can't tell the difference. Nothing has changed that is discernible to the passer by or even the astute observer. They blend into the crowd with an anonymity that would disguise a giraffe in a monkey cage. You may just detect the faintest of smiles and a small amount of air between the feet and the ground."
"Not me!" responded Kylie. "I didn't work this hard not to be noticed. So, are you calling yourself an artist now?" she enquired.
"I think so. For the first time it feels right. Don't ask me why and why now. No, it's not a new me. I'm still the same arrogant prick I've always been. I'm still pig headed, a bigot and very much working class in my dress, drink, car, place of abode and attitude. I'm no smarter than last week and I still love a good barny. But I am now calling myself an artist"
Kylie looked intently to see if she could detect the smile and the air space beneath my feet. Then she snuggled in closer and put her head on my shoulder. "If you've quite finished with your ravings can we get on with this dream before you get woken again by the blonde laying next to you. She is keeping us from bringing this endeavor to completion"
How can I deny her the pleasure.
Hang on, I thought. I don't drink or smoke. That left the artist bit to grapple with. Something had to be real about this dream of mine. Kylie looked real enough but kept vanishing with every nudge from Christine.
I lay awake staring into the dark where the ceiling aught to be and contemplated the idea of being an artist. I thought of an acquaintance who lives in borderline poverty, grapples with bi-polar disorder, washes about as often as I mow the lawn, who's only company is the wildlife that lives in his dreadlocks, and complains that no-one ever understands him. He calls himself an artist. Then I contemplated the life of Henson, who sips the champagne of life with the directors of many galleries, considers shock as the new black and spends a fortune on looking scruffy enough to pass as one of us.
"One of us" I repeated to Kylie who had returned from the bedroom wearing something comfortable.
"One of who?" She asked as she slipped onto the couch next to me like a cat looking for a place to sleep.
"Us! You and me and the other bloke. The people from the suburbs of life who have mortgages and eat at Makka's from time to time and drive cars that are more than 5 years old and go shopping with their spouse on Sunday and consider it a big day out. All those people out there who live the daily humdrum of work, family, friends and the pursuit of happiness, who travel to the far reaches of the planet and to the next bus stop to experience a little of what life can bring, and find along the way a need to communicate in a way they can't find enough words for. They learn to play music, write stories, paint pictures, build statues out of old car parts, dresses from used surgical gloves and houses out of beer bottles. They don't always succeed in their endeavors to speak to others in a more understandable way but they do learn to speak to themselves. They feel good about what they do and about themselves.
A few of these people take up photography. They learn how to use the camera and take pictures. Some do that with gusto. Some have an appeal and are encouraged by the adoring public with their dollars and likes. Some are satisfied with that. Some are not. "I take pictures because I can" isn't quite enough for some. It feels like an unfinished dinner or being woken before you're ready. Those people seek more, something that tells them about themselves. It's an allusive quality that has no definition or boundaries, yet when you find it, there is no other feeling like it.
And here's the funny thing. Stand one of these people next to anyone and you can't tell the difference. Look at their photos and you can't tell the difference. Speak to them and you can't tell the difference. Nothing has changed that is discernible to the passer by or even the astute observer. They blend into the crowd with an anonymity that would disguise a giraffe in a monkey cage. You may just detect the faintest of smiles and a small amount of air between the feet and the ground."
"Not me!" responded Kylie. "I didn't work this hard not to be noticed. So, are you calling yourself an artist now?" she enquired.
"I think so. For the first time it feels right. Don't ask me why and why now. No, it's not a new me. I'm still the same arrogant prick I've always been. I'm still pig headed, a bigot and very much working class in my dress, drink, car, place of abode and attitude. I'm no smarter than last week and I still love a good barny. But I am now calling myself an artist"
Kylie looked intently to see if she could detect the smile and the air space beneath my feet. Then she snuggled in closer and put her head on my shoulder. "If you've quite finished with your ravings can we get on with this dream before you get woken again by the blonde laying next to you. She is keeping us from bringing this endeavor to completion"
How can I deny her the pleasure.