Now You're the Artist...Deal With It: Art For Art's Sake? No Way!, #3

By Lee Benson

The gallery has gone and painting should be a relaxing hobby. Wrong! Selling yourself is far more problematic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Publications
• Release date: Jun 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393458135

Lee Benson

Lee Benson is an award-winning journalist with 30 years of experience as a newspaper writer, columnist, and author. He is currently a metro columnist for the Deseret Morning News and wrote numerous columns about the case as it was unfolding.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Do you know me? I'm an artist. I’ve kept this notion hidden deep inside me for decades. I owned a gallery once upon a time, which at least meant I was right beside the art for many years.

I still have a good eye and the opinion that I might be right.

I’ve been tested and tried through life’s little journey and have come to the conclusion that the answer’s not as simple as pouring a large drink. The very existence of life is sex and sex is a powerful motivator. If something is sexy, curvy and colourful then I’m likely to be attracted to it.

If a torso has a beautifully smooth back...surely then life is smooth and beautiful. I’m somewhat naive but hopefully that’s a redeeming quality. I am possibly available to the opposite sex but you know what. That's none of your business

Now you’re the artist. Deal with it

I’ve closed my existence as a gallery owner and opened my life as an artist. A painter. No, I don’t mean a decorator, using large brushes with few colours.

Now, I need to find a place to hold an exhibition, somewhere where I’m not known. I mean will people accept me as the artist, or will the past catch up on me and no one ends up buying my work; he’s that gallery chap, shouldn’t he be selling the work and not pretending to be the artist.

Why not! Why not me? All of my life I’ve been selling things; I’ve sold everybody else’s work. So, how difficult is it to sell yourself? Let me tell you; it’s almost impossible. Almost, but not quite. So, come join me on my next outing. I need you to as it’s a lot less busy now. Or is it?

ACT 1

SCENE 1

Do you like happy ever after stories? Me too. However, this is not one of them. Well at least, not the first part.

It all started when Miss Top-Hat-and-Tails turned up at the gallery doors literarily just as I’d been forced to close up. There was a connection one might say...after not seeing her for many years. We went off for a drink and as in all good films, it just happened rather quickly.

She landed at my place and dug in for a while.

Why did I let her into my life? I mean surely after a twenty-year gap, I should have realized that something was not right; might never be right.

But my head was closed to reason.

It didn’t take me long too find out that she was a touch mad. Actually, she was barking. Apparently, she left her husband and a shed-load of bills, and she keeps on reminding me that her dog is being held captive, a prisoner against its will and somehow, now, it’s all my fault.

Are all women like this? I know I worked with some pretty unusual members of the species but I have to say Miss Top-Hat-and-Tails takes first prize. She’s the messiest woman on the planet. She’s a walking hurricane, twister and tropical storm rolled into one. In fact, she’s bloody mad Her idea of life is sex and sleeping. That’s it. It’s nowhere near how I imagined it would be. Happy ending time. Not so sure. Think it’s time for an attitudinal shift. Fancy waiting all that time! Don’t get me wrong; she was fun for a while - well maybe a week or two - but now it’s like having a demented pack hound around. Today I’ll take the initiative and do something about it. I feel a real sense of relief with my decision when suddenly the door slams open, hitting the wall with such force it carves a hole in the wall.

‘I’ve had enough of you and your want to be the artist bullshit. All you do is go off and paint. Haven’t you anything better to do. My friends think you’re a lazy bastard.’

‘Hello to you too.’ I keep my distance. ‘Had a bad day at the office?’

‘Why can’t you be normal?’

Despite wanting to say something, to respond with wit and intelligence, I stand and bow. ‘Define normal’

‘How do I know where you are or who you’re with. For all I know you might be out shagging every day!’

‘I should be so lucky’

She picks up an aspidistra plant and hurls it, pot and all, at me, luckily missing but it explodes all over the carpet. Plant and pot are no more.

‘Ikea pots - not that durable then. Never liked it anyway ‘

‘Screw you!’

With that, she turns and frog -marches up the stairs slamming the bedroom door. I hear a herd of disco-dancing elephants resonating through the ceiling. Doors are slammed, and then something else is smashed. I wonder what that could have been? Finally, after ten minutes the tornado emerges with two cases stuffed to the gills.

‘I’m out of here forever. FOREVER!’

The doorbell rings, perfect timing coincidently. I open up and there, standing head and shoulders shorter than me, is a chap in his mid-fifties, sporting a tweed jacket, yellow-spotted cravat and pink cords His shoes are scuffed.

‘She’s all yours matey. I assume that’s who you’ve come for.’ I hold the door open, trying to refrain from looking relieved and look remorseful.

Alas it doesn’t work. I’m unable to stop my face smiling in anticipation.

‘Have you forgotten anything?’

She ignores me and then she’s gone.

Peace. What a wonderful word. Oh yes and calm. Yes calm

The house is calm.

I close the door and walk into the lounge to pour myself a relaxing Irish whiskey into my favourite cut-glass tumbler. I sit in awe of what’s just happened. How the hell did I put up with her this long? There certainly was something about her, but from now on, Miss Top-Hat-and-Tails will be identified as Miss Mad Hatter - with horns. How come she never turned up in all my years of having the gallery? If she had I’d never have ended up with her as a house-guest. Madness lurks everywhere. What an eye opener.

ACT 1 SCENE 2

I walk into the only shop in town selling stationery and art products.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I think I’m beyond help,’ I reply looking at a rather pretty young assistant

‘Oh, I know you. My mom came into you your gallery once and you got her drunk

‘Really. What’s her name’?

‘Isabelle, she was a sculptor but you didn’t like her work enough.’

‘Was I that blunt; surely not?’

‘To be honest she fancied you then, but you showed no interest in her.’ Her look is one of distain.

‘Well, I’m very sorry to have disappointed her. Please tell her I’m sorry and add that she has a very pretty daughter ‘

‘You old men are so schmoozey. She died a couple of years ago. She stopped for a few seconds ‘Are you buying supplies for one of your artists then?’

‘Actually, it’s for me. The gallery has closed. I’m the artist. I’m now on the other side of the counter.’

‘Really! You takin’ the piss or something? What do you know about painting? Suppose this is all about a discount eh. I’m not authorised to give you any and the manager’s away.’

I smile politely and glance down at her chest. That’s where her name badge is pinned. ‘I’m truly sorry for your loss, Lucy. You’re welcome to take it out on me. I’ve broad shoulders but I really would like to buy some watercolours, brushes and paper today, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’m sorry, it just sometimes all gets too much and I want to explode. It’s not fair; she was only fifty-one.’

‘Tell me more about your mom, then.’

This seems to have a cathartic effect and slowly she calms down, the angst leaving her knitted brows.

‘Shall we drink something? I always had a well-stocked wine supply and good fresh coffee and tea in the gallery. It was amazing how many people