Let the mountain come to you

 

It was an unpleasantly hot Labor Day morning and I was waiting for blog inspiration to come to me so I could write today's column.

It didn't come.

That's odd. Maybe I was supposed to make a picture then?

I decided I would make a picture of alien spaceships in a John Constable painting. So I opened up photoshop and then opened my folder of John Constable paintings. There was an interesting Van Gogh drawing in there that wouldn't work at all!

So I opened it up.

Why did I open this up? But there was no one to answer. So I put an alien spaceship in it but it just came out like a weird, giant pointing thing in the sky.

"That's neat." I said.

Then I put in a flying saucer.

Then I put in two cats. Then I got rid of a cat.

I put in a skyscraper, no, a tower, no, two towers. I got rid of the pointing thing. I added two flying saucers. I got rid of all the flying saucers.

I ask you: Is it respectful to stage an alien visitation in a Van Gogh drawing.

No, but that ship has already sailed, and the aliens I tried adding looked really bad anyway. I added a ship to represent the sailed ship. 

No.

I took it out. 

I reflected:

Once I watched a Picasso film where he painted a picture and at any moment he could have stopped but he just kept going and painting over things and just completely changing everything over and over.

It was then that I decided to put a hole in my Van Gogh picture.

And I was done:

The new Van Gogh

 

Vincent Van Gogh was a very fine painter, like, as good an anyone else who ever lived! And there have been some pretty good painters who lived! We won't count the ones who didn't live as the comparison is unfair. But did you know that Van Gogh was also a terrific drawer! I once held one of his drawings in my hands!

What was that like? You ask.

It was a lot like holding any other rectangular thing in my hands.

But it is totally something to talk about.

I took a picture of some pictures in a Van Gogh book (there are an endless number of Van Gogh books!). One picture was of a man shoveling. I thought maybe I could put the drawn shoveler in a John Constable painting in that rascally way I have, but he didn't fit in any of them so well. 

Where, I wondered, could I put this cool shoveling guy?

I found a great spot for him in another drawing...

by Van Gogh.

"Well that's kind of silly." You say in an affectionate way like we're all living in a Winnie the Pooh book.

But hear me out!

It was like I created a new Van Gogh!

No? 

No, I didn't think so either. So I drew stuff all over the picture with a marking pen, metaphorically, where the marking pen is a ton of photo manipulations.

And now it's just...

whatever it is.

Van Gogh in the reservoir woods

 

Yesterday I went to the Reservoir Woods. They are a surprisingly big inner ring suburban woodlands, and many times I could not see out, even in the bareness of winter, to the civilization surrounding me. It was a lovely morning full of snow and also full of me falling through the snow and swearing as the snow then filled in my boots around my ankles and then melted.

Naturally I wanted to memorialize it all for you. Using my phone I took some pictures but they were not good enough to meet the minimum standards required to appear on Clerkmanifesto!

"What" You ask. "Are the minimum standards required to appear on Clerkmanifesto?"

Check in every morning at 6:30 a.m. to find out! 

Each post is worked to its least acceptable standard, no matter how long it takes.

And never an inch more!

Anyway, my solution to this problem of not meeting my minimum standards with my photos was to ask my phone to put penguins into my pictures. That is what I showed you yesterday. It gave a slightly better feel for the area, though maybe it was a bit less accurate, especially since, and it pains me to say this, there were no actual penguins in The Reservoir Woods. But I also had asked my phone to pretend as if Van Gogh had gone walking with me and made a few paintings of the trees when I was taking pictures of them.

And this is the very thing I have for you today.

Van Gogh Drawing

 

Once my wife and I went to the local museum library to look at some original drawings. It's still amazing to me that one can do such a thing. We sat at a large, wooden table, and the nice museum librarian brought out some original drawings, some framed, some not, for us to look at. One of these was a drawing by Van Gogh, who, like many painters, was equally good at drawing as he was at painting, which is saying a lot because there has never been a better painter than him.

With such enormous regard for Van Gogh's drawing one may wonder why I would desecrate one of his drawings as I have below.

I could say that I am not desecrating it. I am merely bringing it to a wider audience. 

But that wider audience is three people (hi everybody!), so that might not be it. Also you all are, I'm pretty sure, clear on the work of Van Gogh.

I could say it's because I'm jealous. 

But...

Me? 

Jealous of Van Gogh! One might as well be jealous of the stars in the sky!

I am a little jealous of the stars in the sky. 

But I don't think that's it either.

The real reason is:

Van Gogh would want me to do it!

Just kidding. I'm sure Van Gogh has bigger potatoes on his plate that this kind of thing.

So I said... part 47

 

A co-worker was telling me about a patron interaction.

They said that a man came into the library and up to the front desk. This patron wasn't wearing a mask, which is required in our library, so my co-worker told him he had to wear one to be in our library due to county health policies. This co-worker gestured over to a box of disposable masks we have on the front desk as a helpful solution to the problem.

The man picked up one of the masks and said "How am I supposed to even wear this? I don't have an ear!" Then he showed my co-worker that he was indeed missing one ear."

So I said:

"You should have asked him if he had any paintings you could buy."

Chopin and Jarrett

 

I found one of my flash drives with Keith Jarrett concerts on it. One might think that I, a man with varying musical tastes, might have an assortment of different musics represented on whatever flash drives I might have, but no. It's all Keith Jarrett. Apparently whenever the impulse hits me to put music on a flash drive I invariably think of Keith Jarrett. And more specifically it is his Vienna and Paris Concerts that are on each of the storage devices. These are two of his concerts in which he gets up on stage, alone with a piano, and plays  improvisationally for an hour and a half or so. It is a lot of effort for him to do this and he tends to grunt, writhe, buzz, and tunelessly squeak as he creates his dazzling, slightly damaged (by the grunting and squeaking) music.

I have been listening to the Vienna Concert in my car commuting to my job at the library. It's beautiful, intense music, and it requires a lot of concentration. I love it and can't help thinking how extraordinary it might have been to be at that Vienna concert, listening to genius captured in a bottle, and then wandering out into the city of Vienna. I imagine Vienna to be an amazing enough city to rise to the challenge of such a moment.

Something about Keith Jarrett's piano tends to make me think of Chopin. Maybe there's some commonality in the way they make me feel, the way they draw me into the physical piano, its transforming sound, the way they sieve me through the sound, and send me out into some other dream of night. Sleighs in Winter, dark woods, art nouveau cafes, winding alleyways sparkling with stars.

There was a dichotomy that Van Gogh and Gaugin supposedly argued about, and debated over, involving the virtues of painting from the imagination (Gaugin) versus painting from shimmering life (Van Gogh). They even tried one each in the other's style.  And this runs through my mind as I wonder at what is more astonishing to me: Chopin setting down and actually imagining and writing the Nocturnes, or Keith Jarrett walking up on stage and writing those concerts on the air.

Both of them seem just beyond the realm of the possible.

A theory of art

I love getting all objective about art as much as the next person. Actually I love it at least twice as much as the next person, and maybe even three times as much. Not only are there ongoing series running in this space with titles like "The Hundred Greatest Albums of All Time" and "Did I mention yet that Caravaggio is the best painter ever? Because I'm going to do it again right now!", but you might also have noticed all my book reviews, reviews of Romantic Comedies, and even my copious reviews of Italian Gelaterias, which are not infrequent visitors to this space, have their fair share of a tone I would describe as VOICE OF GOD. 

Well, it's about fifty-fifty VOICE OF GOD and "I'm really quite absurd", just to keep everyone on their toes.

Is everyone on their toes? 

At the large, near urban library where I work, across and to the right from the front desk of the library, there is a large, abstract painting on the wall there. It is of unparalleled ugliness.

Wait, I was just being dramatic to make my account really pop and because "unparalleled ugliness" is a very fancy thing to get to say. But it's not true and I'm kind of embarrassed. It is not a painting of unparalleled ugliness! It is a painting of pretty regularly paralleled ugliness. 

But, and to invoke the voice of god:

IT IS NOT A GOOD PAINTING!

No one could think it is a good painting. It is void of feeling, technique, invention, purpose, and understanding. And last week two library patrons walked by it and one stopped and said "I love that painting." It wasn't casual. She said it like she meant it!

And so, as I do whenever I encounter anything that threatens to tear my brain apart, I developed a theory. Don't worry. It's wasn't hard work. I develop theories like breathing. They come in. They go out. And before you know, wallah!, 2,500 theories and you can read them all, right here, at clerkmanifesto. Tell your friends.

On second thought, don't tell your friends. It's not really their sort of thing. Though I'm glad you like it.

Here is my theory:

Different people like different art.

The thing about Van Gogh is that maybe one of his paintings will have 60 percent of the people who look at it really liking it or loving it. That's a lot of people! And the painting in my library will maybe have one percent of one percent liking it. That's very few people. That difference makes one of the paintings wildly sought after and valuable, and appropriate for a museum. Whereas the other is wrongly mounted to the wall in a public library when, really, it belongs in the house of that one person who commented on it the other day, where she can sit and like it all by her lonesome.

Or, perhaps even more bluntly, Harry Potter is loved by so many people that they had to print 100 million copies of it and the author became one of the richest people in the world. Whereas I, for instance, think this blog post is notably better than the final book in Ms Rowling's series, but I'm nearly alone in that contention.

Does that make me wrong and everyone else right?

Yes, generally. 

But specifically, no.

No, no, no, no!

In fact, and here is the thing in the valuing of art that I kind of like: 

Whoever is making the argument, wins.

The sitcom

Many times a co-worker has mentioned what a great sitcom our library would make. Sure, fine. It depends on the writers, and the cast, and luck, and the set designer, and the director, and well, sitcoms are malleable. One can make a great sitcom about pretty much any workplace. My favorite was about a spy and his spy job. But sure, we're a wacky crowd here at the library. With the proper fictionalizing and massive editing we can be mildly amusing, so long as there's a laugh track to help us.

But in the years since I began my magnum opus, "The Clerkmanifesto", I never feel any warmth towards my co-workers suggesting a sitcom about us. "You are a part of my ongoing Proustian masterpiece about this library and you don't even manage to read it? And yet you think we could be the next Night Court!" I berate, gesticulating wildly, while they suddenly excuse themselves to shelve...just...anything. I track them down while they cower before my terrifying rage. "You know who you are? You're the sort of person in Arles who ignored Van Gogh's painting but would chat with him about how someone should make some nice postcards about the local area because it was so pretty."

At least, that's the way I picture the scene, with maybe Steve Carell or Ben Stiller playing me. The audience titters through my tirade, then there should be a big laugh at the end. Otherwise, how will anyone know how funny it's supposed to be? 

Dear Editor, Pioneer Press

Dear Editor, Pioneer Press Newspaper:



I take no joy in being the bearer of bad news, but, alas, you are about to be scooped by your crosstown rival, The Star Tribune. They are on the verge of hiring the the most exciting new columnist since H. L. Mencken, or maybe Judith Martin. Acclaim, notoriety, scads of Pulitzers, and the talk of the town are all heading their way.

But I am not writing you merely as a stormcrow. I am in sympathy with your little brother, underdog, eeyorish position among our cities newspapers, and I am uniquely in a position to do something about it.

Hold onto your hat because you are in for a shocker!

I am that exciting new columnist imminently to be hired by The Star Tribune!

But the key word is "imminently". It hasn't quite happened... yet. I wanted to give you a chance.

I know what you're thinking: "These greedy geniuses! Always with the bidding wars and the driving up the prices! How much money does Bob Dylan need that he stars in unfunny computer commercials? What will Van Gogh even do with so much money that he sells his paintings for 100 million dollars?"

But it's not like that. 

As an artist who has long labored in obscurity and only recently hit my stride, it is not the fattest contract that I crave, it's understanding.

Anyone can see what a vital asset I would be to a publication. That's obvious. I want to be hired by people who appreciate me. So here's what I propose:

You, The Pioneer Press, and The Star Tribune, both send me a present. It shouldn't cost more than, say, $50, but it needn't cost anything. It could, for instance, be a piece of memorabilia from your newsroom. I will open these gifts without knowing which paper they are from. The winner of this little contest will be whoever gave me the gift I feel best understands me. Then that newspaper and I will proceed to rake in the Pulitzers and watch the circulation numbers, er, probably do nothing or go down. But I don't think that's my fault.

Anyway, I look forward to your gift, and I secretly hope you win.




Your possible future columnist,





F. Calypso

Van Gogh vs. Dylan

Two figures who appear frequently here are Vincent Van Gogh and Bob Dylan. Nevertheless they rarely appear together. I don't think they know each other, though they may have met once or twice at one of those parties one ends up at that are just wall to wall celebrities. Bumming around town one hardly even sees a single celebrity, but then one pops ones head in at some high roller's soiree and bam, it's all "I never thought I'd see Einstein chatting with Boyz II Men and Gummo, the fifth Marx Brother." But those parties aren't really the kind of place where one gets to know someone, even if one might want to.

But because I never talk about Dylan and Van Gogh together we never get a chance to discuss the issue that invariably leaps to mind every time I bring up either of them, namely:

Who Was the Greater Artist, Bob Dylan or Vincent Van Gogh

We go head to head in all the vital categories and accord a definitive winner!

1. Image

Van Gogh: Unstable, Passionate, troubled, and in love with life.

Dylan: Mercurial, hard to pin down, iconoclastic, cool, and seedy.

The edge goes to Dylan here because of the ear slicing incident.

2. Popularity

Van Gogh:  Labored in unwanted obscurity through life. Pretty much owned the "most favorite artist ever" charts through the 1980's and 90's.

Dylan: Feverishly respected by his peers and ever sporting a large, fiercely devoted fan base, he nevertheless has tended to be outcharted by lesser talents.

The edge to Van Gogh as no one ever complains about his voice.

3. Ancillary Products

Van Gogh: Cards, key chains, mugs, posters, movies, umbrellas, and really anything you can slap an image on.

Dylan: Chevrolets, women's underwear, harmonicas.

The edge to Van Gogh. Neither of them went the super classy route, but Van Gogh gets credit for being dead during it.

4. Style.

Van Gogh: Straw hat, "Arty Farmhand", scowl.

Dylan: Black hat, "Hobo Chic", scowl.

The edge to Dylan. Sometimes it seems like Van Gogh doesn't care.

5. Financial Value of Work

Van Gogh: Now that we've decided to give all the money in the world to a couple thousand people, there's not much left that's so rare and valuable that they have to fight over it. Van Gogh paintings fit into that tiny grouping.

Dylan: Works hard and can sell out your mid-sized arenas, but until he's willing to do a more fan friendly Vegas style performance he won't land many of those juicy corporate shows.

The edge to Van Gogh. Someone should do the decent thing and dig him up and put him in a solid gold casket.

6. Range of Talents

Van Gogh: Besides being as great a painter as anyone ever, he was also as good at drawing as anyone else ever. He wrote nice letters. He could also preach.

Dylan: In addition to all the music stuff, he paints, writes excellent quality non fiction, and is not a bad actor. He's done a bit of film making and no small amount of political activism, though he might not like it if you called it that. He is also a good lay historian of American Music.

The edge to Dylan, despite the fact that he has done no notable blogging.

Totals:

Popularity, Ancillary Products, and Financial Value of Work to Van Gogh for a score of three.

Image, Style, and Range of Talents to Dylan for a score of three.

Curses, it's a tie!

Only a nationwide vote can settle this now.

My genius is silence

When I write a blog post, as part of the process of assembling it, there comes a time where I give the post labels. If you're reading this on blog you can see them down at the bottom of this, mostly in red, little subject words like "blogging" or "Van Gogh" or "writing". You click on one of them and it brings you to all the posts I've written that employed that subject label and thus, that subject. Of course, if you have signed up and received my post via email, you won't see those subject labels. This, I suspect, will be no great loss to you since, as far as I can tell, people hardly ever make use of these labels. I rarely find readers roaming around deep in the history of my blog.

I do, though, roam in that history, all the time. And with 700-800 blog posts I find these subject labels helpful in my doing so. As the number of clerkmanifesto posts steadily climbs, any organizing tool I can use for plumbing and rewiring the history of this blog is useful. 

Consider Van Gogh, famously selling no paintings. He had an awful lot of paintings that were not selling. Basically all of them. Clearly he didn't throw them away. They must have just kept stacking up. They were so bulky and there were so many! So what did he do? I picture him piling them up according to categories: landscapes, flowers, portraits, city scenes, and so on. No one was asking Van Gogh about his "Night" paintings, but when Van Gogh was wondering about his old "Night" paintings, or just wanted to look at a couple for fun, he knew where to go.

Not that I am necessarily the Van Gogh of bloggers. I mean, that wasn't my point. But, coincidentally, I am, actually, for the record, the Van Gogh of bloggers, only with more ears and a greatly expanded lifespan.

I always add one subject label that is kind of a code. The code label refers to how good I think my particular post is. "Wee" is for a post I feel is particularly essential, sort of iconic of my blog. I probably use that less than I should, either from my trace of humbleness that I like to secret away from you, or perhaps from a persistent desire to leave some room at the top. "Tombs" is for the posts I feel are particularly winning, the kind I always think I will be delighted to run into later on. The "Rok" label isn't necessarily for posts that are less than splendid, but does tend to refer to silly posts, bread and butter posts, and often enough is just a designation to say "I really have no idea how good or bad this one is."

The funny thing is that I tend to put my labels into a post when I'm about halfway through writing it. My self rating is oddly speculative. If I put down "Rok" I'm fine chattering away, a little like I am now. I don't mind plowing flamboyantly to the finish. If I am feeling a touch of the writer's high, and write in a "Tombs" label in a fit of confidence, I soon find myself leaving out more. I get spare with words. I get elegant, mercurial. I reach for the stars. 

But I don't think I'd ever have the mad courage to put in the label "Wee" in the middle of a post. If I did that I don't think I would dare to write one more word.

Go

There he is, oh man think of it. What's he live on? He sure doesn't have a job. I think his brother helps him out. He's really into painting so he paints a lot. Most people don't like him. I wouldn't. His personality is abrasive, sullen, argumentative. He doesn't get my jokes. He's passionate, sure, but let me ask you, where do you put that when you just have errands to run around town, when you're getting dressed, or choosing a loaf of bread (he didn't mean to bark like that at the baker's apprentice)? Where do you put all that feeling when you're trying to get a decent nights sleep? Where do you put that when you're lonely. Sometimes... well, the painting and drawing helps, but it works you up too.

He's sure the paintings are good. His brother, who loves him, says so, and he sells paintings. But he doesn't sell his paintings as nobody exactly wants them. Some people really seem to like them though. He has a friend who is a very great, somewhat famous painter. This friend acts as if he likes his paintings, or maybe respects or admires them. But he never says outright.

The thing is he suspects he might be something like the greatest painter who ever lived. That's wrong isn't it? But is it wrong if it's true? He knows he is just like a crazy person when he thinks this: "I am the greatest painter in the world!" What on earth does that mean anyway? "Yeah, I'm the greatest painter in the world, painting today from a crazy house." He's had a breakdown or two. Anyway, isn't it love that matters?  He loves the sunlight. He loves the air and the color and feel of everything. But has this, has what he's doing, ever been done before, by anyone in all the world?

The strange thing is that he actually is the greatest painter who ever lived. At least him, or Caravaggio, or one of a half dozen people out there through history, depending on how you feel about it. The greatest, whatever that means. He doesn't know what it means and neither do you or I. But maybe someone should tell him that he is the greatest of all time anyway, before it's all too much. Before it's too late.

It is all too much. It is too late, by 125 years. At least for one crucial moment something was too much for him. He shot his way out. Was it knowing? Not knowing? "What is all this I made?" It's hard to be alone. Life happens on the street, a million miles under the stars. Nothing is ever a myth or a legend when it's happening. There are no stories on the ground in real time. It's boring, it's slow, it's beautiful, and it breaks your heart.

Ghosted

Here is my small story for the "If you build it they will come" crowd.  It is for the people who think all your Van Goghs and Emily Dickinsons and Franz Kafkas always find their way out to the world, and that all greatness is destined by its quality to be at least some small part of the recorded history of human culture.

The greatest blog ever written was composed daily from 1949 to 1983 in the form of daily letters. They were from a woman in Ohio to her sister in England. They were funnier than I could ever hope to be, wise, witty, perfectly sketched, and frequently compelling. The language, though fluid and readable on an immediate level, was relentlessly inventive. It danced. Small things you say today, ways you talk and write, would be attributable to this treasure trove of letters, these dazzling essays, these sketches of the heart of the universe and its most trifling details. But they aren't, because only one person ever read these letters: the person they were sent to.

When the woman, the sister these letters were sent to, died, her family offered them back to her sister, the writer. They had been treasured and reread many times by the person they were sent to. They had been neatly boxed up in careful order as they were received. But the sister did not want them back.  And many years later the letters were simply thrown away.

Yes, these were letters, and they never made it to the Internet but for this glancing mention here. With the writer, the reader, and the letters all dead, they are a ghost. And though they weren't a blog really, the writing was exactly the same as what I mean by a blog. And it was the best blog ever. It dogs my steps. It haunts me. And like small gods and like great dreams and like enlightenment it belongs to a secret world we are forced to contend with. We are never there. No, no matter what I do, I am never there. I never can be and neither can you. We must do our best with here. All we can do is send our notes over to all majesty, to mastery, to small gods, to the fulfillment of our dreams, to enlightenment, and let them know how we're doing.

And hope that they are read and neatly boxed up.

Painting Starry Night again

Joni Mitchell said something once in a concert that has always stuck with me. She was performing her music in front of an enthusiastic crowd for an emblematic live album. People were calling out songs they'd like to hear, and she said:

nobody ever said to Van Gogh, 'Paint us Starry Night again, man!' You know?
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/m/mitchell_joni.html#H3U1jGl2W1FHRIWL.99

nobody ever said to Van Gogh, 'Paint us Starry Night again, man!' You know?
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/m/mitchell_joni.html#H3U1jGl2W1FHRIWL.9

"Nobody ever said to Van Gogh, 'Paint us Starry Night again, man!' You know?"

In the full, expanded quote she said "You know" three times though.

Perhaps my original strong reaction to this statement was because it was so pungent. There's one of the greatest singer songwriters ever complaining about her job to her enthusiastic fans. But once the quote was seared into my consciousness it became a kind of marker of my perspective. How I felt about her quote seemed to change with me through time, like my response to Catcher in the Rye or to being a library clerk. My response quickly started to say more about me, than her.

Ain't that just the way?

What have some of my reactions been? I have been sympathetic (she's practically a god, just let her do what she wants!). I have been correcting (well, really, Van Gogh paintings go for a hundred million dollars. Of course people would like him to paint Starry Night again!). I have been appalled (they just love some of her songs. Is that some sort of a crime?).

But just recently I found myself with a new response to Joni Mitchell's quote. I thought of poor Vincent Van Gogh, painting some of the greatest works of art in the history of mankind, and no one wants them. He had to be pretty sure they were good, almost positive, you know, but all these people going up to his latest for the ages masterpiece, looking at it for about a second and a half, and saying "No, I like it. My cousin does a bit of painting too on the side, mostly fruit, you know. I think you'd like it. It's a bit like your stuff, maybe a bit tidier. I should show you the drawing he sent me some time.", well, it had to make him feel a bit unsteady. So I'm thinking Van Gogh might have appreciated a little real interest in his painting.

"Hey, Van Gogh, paint us Starry Night again, man! That starry night shit was awesome!"

"Thank you for your interest." Van Gogh says "But that's not really how I work. I paint something new each time."

"That's cool. But still, I love me that Starry Night shit. Starry Night rocks!"

"Well, I mean. If you like it so much you can have it, if you want. I have a lot of paintings."

"Dude, are you serious? I can have Starry Night? I am going to freaking explode. Seriously, I can have this?"

"Sure, yeah, um, why not?"

"Oh         My         Fucking          God! Oh my fucking god. You, sir Van Gogh, you fucking rock! YOU FUCKING ROCK!!!!  Starry Night! STARRY NIGHT!  WOOOOOOO!"




"Oh wow, did you just, like, give that guy, like, Starry Night?"

"Yes, I think he really liked it."

"I absolutely love Starry Night. I adore Starry Night. I would marry Starry Night and have its babies!"

"You would?"

"Oh, wow. That was awesome that you gave it to him, but, Mr. Van Gogh, you have got to paint Starry Night again. You have got to! Please?"

"Right. Yes, see, as I was just explaining, I don't really do that. I paint a new picture every time."

"You do?"

"Yes, see all these paintings? There are flowers, and people. This is a peach tree. This one is a farmhouse. Here is a drawing of a garden I did, with a little cat and a bucket. The cat looks a bit funny but I'm really pleased with the bucket."

"But I LOVE Starry Night. I loooooovvvve  L-O-V-E love Starry Night!"

"Well, that's very nice..."

"Pleeeaasse paint Starry Night again. Pleeease? Pullllleeeeeeeeeaaaaase. Pleez pleez pleez pleez pleez? Please paint Starry Night???"

"Look. Here's this one called Cafe Terrace. It has stars. Look at the stars."

"Oh, this is a nice one."

"And see this one? This is called Starry Night Over the Rhone."

"Wow, these are good. Did you know that you are a really good painter?"

"Um."

"I bet you could sell some of these. These are really good."

"Thank you."

"No, really, I'm serious, you could be a professional painter."

"That's very kind of you to say."




"Hey, are you the guy who's giving out free Starry Nights?"

"What?"

"I heard there's some guy giving out free Starry Nights over here, and I thought 'Cool, I dig Starry Night. I could totally go for a Starry Night.' So here I am. Can I have my free Starry Night?"

"There are not multiple Starry Nights. I gave Starry Night to someone, but there's just the one. It's a painting you know. One of a kind."

"Oh, well that's cool, but could you paint Starry Night again so I could have one?"

"No! I cannot paint Starry Night again!"

"Well, I mean, respectfully, why not? Obviously you painted it before, so you know how. What's the big deal?"

"It's just, it's not how it works. Ugh! I wish I could just paint something once and everyone could share in having it. I bet no one ever said, like, you know, 'Hey, Joni Mitchell, write us Both Sides Now again, man.'"

"Okay, dude, chill. I get it. Hey, can I have this Sunflower picture?"





Hmm, that didn't go where I was planning. I'm pretty sure there's a point in here somewhere. I hope you'll feel welcome to work out whichever one you want. 


But don't make me do all this again.

Famous for the wrong thing

Sometimes I'll write up some really smashing bit of prose here, and feel all tingly and proud, and I'll send it off to the internet with as much of the tiny fanfare as I can muster with my crude, paleolithic marketing skills, only to find it slips right into that internet ocean with barely a whisper. Sinks silently, Just another blog day gone. And yet on other occasions I'll dash off, with barely a whiff of fanfare, some touch of nonsense that I think will just barely do for the day, and I find quite a bit of fuss over it out in internet land, relatively speaking. Co-workers who I thought long since stopped reading my blog say suddenly "I liked today's post."

"The one I wrote about how I tie shoes?" I ask amazed.

The thing is, you just can't ever tell. Other people are, curiously, not me, and so have wholly different standards for quality. Of course, I am nearly always startled and taken aback that almost anything I write isn't insanely popular. It mystifies me. But I bear up better under it than I used to, with a lot less bitter disappointment and a lot more genuine curiosity and bafflement. "Is the internet broken?" I ask myself. I shake the internet. Seems okay. I can still get to amazon. Youtube videos of Jack White playing Ball and Biscuit still garner tens of thousands of views. I guess the internet is working. Perhaps I am not the greatest blogger ever. No, that doesn't seem right. I scratch my head. Sometimes I think I will never crack the mystery.

Fortunately I am not alone in all of this wrong thing famous sort of thing. I've seen many an artist struggle with this stuff. Arthur Conan Doyle did not seem very keen on his success with Holmes, going so far as to kill him off, thinking that would convince everyone to go nuts over his historical fiction if only he could just disappoint them into it. I recently read Kerouac hated beatniks. Anthony Burgess seemed to have only one famous book, Clockwork Orange, and he also seemed to have only one book he sort of loathed and wished he hadn't written. Yep. Oddly, I'm not so keen on Clockwork Orange either, so maybe I should dig out some of his other books. I wonder if one can find them anywhere. Maybe shelved in the closet of a dying bookstore somewhere next to Doyle's historical fiction. Mark Twain detested Pride and Prejudice, which I feel was one of his best books. Oh, really? Well, still, it's interesting, there he is, on about three million different subjects  the best quote by anyone ever turns out to be by Mark Twain, and then, from out of nowhere he totally misses the boat on Pride and Prejudice. Odd. Where am I going with this? I do not know. I cannot stop. Eons ago I saw the Kinks in concert. I was pretty sure they passionately hated Lola with every fiber of their being. But I suppose that could have been from the repetition problem. Like on that Joni Mitchell concert album, Miles of Aisles, where she actually complains to adoring fans who want her to play her songs. "No one ever asked Van Gogh to paint starry night again." She notoriously complains. Well, to begin with, at the time no one was the least bit interested in Van Gogh painting Starry Night in the first place. He toiled in near obscurity. I think maybe he had to work at a library to make a living! Imagine, a genius like that toiling in a library! In the second place, if we could bring Van Gogh back (not that he'd want to come) that is basically what everyone would ask him, some version of "Hey Van Gogh, could you please paint Starry Night again?"

"Sorry, man." He'd have to say, over and over "I'm into this more conceptual stuff now."

So what's the point of all this? Oh, sorry, I guess you didn't know. We don't do "points" on Sunday. It's casual day on the blog. I am free to ramble along the edges of sheer nonsensicality. And that is exactly what I have done in this blog post. But just you watch. I bet it takes the internet by storm.