Untitled chapter 1
To pretend to be poor and add me to her friends later to deny all knowledge. In the old days, they did such tricks, and the victim was rewarded.
I was not rewarded; I was condemned as a fool.
I did not know why it felt odd.
We were not treated fairly, I thought. We were then toys to the rich women and men, having some kind of amusement. We were a parade of prats. Passing it odd the abuse, the thing was we were the abusers for a change.
So why did it feel odd? I was odd, I am still odd. I thought of looking a gift horse in the mouth. What was I, a nerd who thought everything odd? Weird, the world is a weird place for an oddball.
I felt fat and dumpy, and there it is. Me.
We were provided with every necessity, we were given money and some drinks and parties, and we did not want for anything we asked. Who had dared to enter their zone and tried to make art in the place of wails.
Untrained and underexposed, we flowered into artists, so we thought. Wined and dined and made into impostors of ourselves, we were let loose onto the world. We did not even want to be us anymore; we were superior us.
We were no longer nothing; we were like dirt no more, we had become jewels. From the dirty swine's we were some things from the great unwashed; we had been named higher than ever. We just asked to fly.
We just left the rags behind; now we were halfway to the riches. Except that the doors closed as soon as they opened.
You see, we did everything to gain respect.
Did not know we were the fools.
"I know your mother, we've been sitting chatting down together all afternoon," Said Jones.
Then a female caught my eye, she had been staring at me as if she had seen a marvellous act. An actor in a huge dimension, and I responded to that. Because I felt I was a huge actor in a huge novel.
I did not know she was playing and plying me with compliments.
"Drinky."
Drunk.
"We are habitual drunks, so it is refreshing to meet someone who isn't."
“Who were you before you became an artist?” She asked.
“A cook,” I replied.
She nodded in something like approval. Then I saw her laughing in her sleeve; she just had to let it out.
I did not have time to think, I had nothing but to do some artwork because a buyer was coming to collect the yet unfinished work. I panted most of the day as I tried to make it work. I did most of it when the tutor said it was perfect. That was how the buyer wanted it.
"You have no artistic ability," said Dad, as he was blind, he did not count.
One must see to form a judgement.
I wondered if most of the world would be blind,
I did not understand in the galleries we visited, everything made sense, was perfection in the days in that hub, we were imperfections, was it that? Imperfect creatures doing imperfect art. The artists spent years painting one picture.
“You are an artist.”
“I am a what?”
I did not hear right, I thought he meant an ass.
“Meet the artist.”
“Hail to the artists.”
The woman sitting down glowed; she was not considered an artist. She was left to her own devices to enjoy the joke.
“This is the artist I was telling you about.”
The artist must die because the art is still alive.
“Hi,” I said, curious to meet the man who was foolish enough to buy a painting for 300 pounds, and the ink was hardly dry.
“It is how he likes them, now go and paint some more.”
Maria was there having a peek. She appeared satisfied. She appeared sympathetic, but she did not show her artwork until the painting was completely dry and she was satisfied with it.
I was nothing compared to her, but she was comfortable within her own body of work. She was ninety years old.
Most ninety-year-olds do not have such respect. So, I am a toad to her and made sense of her as much as possible.
She may have found something about life. Why should she be so respected when she entered the room? People did not stare; they were flushed with some heat. It had nothing to do with her looks.
When Mary went and came, they did nothing much but try to get into her pants. And she was a respectable artist.
The averted eyes when men and women looked at me said nothing to me. I, as an artist, thought they were obscene.
They were going to break their silences eventually, but were ready to see me ride my disappointment at being an artist.
The group knew where the cookie crumpled. I thought with some glee, just waste your time. But did not speak, did not say a word. Just continued painting.
There is malicious enjoyment in us all. How did we all end up being artists when we were not much at all? Who put us in our paces to paint until there was nothing in front of our eyes?
Someone was playing a huge, tragic joke, and I was never going to be one ever again. A joke.
Look, you see a homeless unit has all these men and women who have nothing to lose, then they get into art, and suddenly one is courted and made into an aspiring art dealer.
Some twisted fiend did this? Ten little piggies.
I was an aspiring deva, a star, and why? I could not even paint anything but the eyes. Could never do anything else.
I, as a woman in such circumstances, thought, should I or should I not?
I am not going to please anyone.
My prices are low, and they don't sell.
I was someone they thought I was, that something that someone was. I was so deranged for some time that I wanted to believe. I wanted so desperately to believe in the whole show.
