An abridged excerpt from one of my books

I Am Artist (you can be too)

The invitation

(A fanciful tale)

It is not often that I get an invitation to attend an art symposium and associated exhibition, in fact, it's never happened before. I have no idea how they got my name or address, must have been through one of my internet transactions most likely, we've lost our privacy nowadays it seems. I must confess that indeed I was pleasantly surprised and chose to think about it before replying with an acceptance. The invitation stipulated dress to be black tie. I don’t own a tuxedo, neither would I be happy turning up dressed in uniform looking like everyone else, just another one in a waddle of penguins. I’m an Artist you see, I jokingly refer to myself as the Artist with the capital A. Although I deny being a snob, I declare myself to be different and set apart from everyone else. Either way whatever I think of myself when it comes to parties and any kind of social gatherings, I always and very quickly end up alone in a corner somewhere clutching a drink and feeling embarrassed for being alive breathing air. I saw that the venue was to be held on the two lower levels of one of the city’s tallest skyscrapers, the exhibition itself was in the mezzanine level, there was to be a party after that. The whole thing promised to be a big night and for me an excuse to get dressed up and actually have somewhere specific to go. What made it awkward though, was the fact I would be alone not knowing anyone there. This in itself has always been the case and a major disincentive for me to go to such events. More difficult was the fact that I’d become semi-reclusive in my old age, and not used to going out especially at night as I feared the street violence that occurs in the city, especially since I would have to commute by bus and train all dressed up attracting attention. I resolved to not be deterred and sent in my acceptance, as well as payment for the embarrassing single ticket.

On the big night, I was surprised to see a huge turnout, there seemed to be groups of people that knew each other, and everyone there had a partner. I was greeted at the door and asked where my partner was, I stated I was alone. The lady checked out the guestlist for a moment, then she said yes, I see you’ve been assigned to table thirty-one with a telling tone of voice. Thirty-one I thought, this is thirteen, my lucky number in reverse. I was born on the thirteenth you see, lucky moi. I wasted no time in claiming my complimentary drink, and since I was not driving, I decided to dose myself liberally with whatever took my fancy. Everyone was milling around looking at the paintings and other art exhibits on show. It was an impressive sight and a class event attended by what looked to me like some very rich people and very progressive looking young people as well. I felt inferior and terribly out of place, that horrible gremlin inside my head started at me making me think, what the fuck am I doing here?  What can I possibly get out of this other than embarrassing myself?  Better be careful of what I say if I talk to anyone. And so it was I kept myself inconspicuous by walking around looking at the art, being mindful not to stand still for too long lest it became obvious I was alone with nothing to do and no one to socialise with.

The bell rang and the announcement directed us to take our places at our designated tables on the above level as the symposium was about to begin. Having taken my place at table thirty-one, my curiosity was reaching fever pitch to see who I’d be sharing the table with, and who would be sitting either side of me. In no time at all the guests arrived and I could tell straight away that table thirty-one was set aside for the odd ones, thus placed somewhat noticeably to the rear of the room. Great I thought, lovely stuff, a fat ugly woman next to me, some middle-aged man with scruffy hair, a big belly, and wearing a tuxedo that obviously had been rented and saw better days, his shoes were a disgrace. The seat on my right was still vacant and stayed vacant till well after the opening speech was underway. I looked at the place name, it read Stanley Asmodeus, sounds like the fucking devil in disguise I thought to myself.  Wait and see, in the hope of finding someone to talk to sometime during the night. That man with the scruffy hair did not look like someone I wanted to be seen talking with, and neither was the woman. You’re a snotty little snob the nasty little gremlin inside my head reminded me. Fuck off and leave me alone I answered silently moving my lips. Finally, this mystery man arrived ushered to the table as the lights were turned off with full attention commanded on stage where the speakers were. He quietly sat down saying nothing and I could discern a very unusual cologne he was wearing, seriously dark, heavy and alluring. I never smelled anything like it before. There seemed to be a presence about him and I was dying to take a good look at this person sitting next to me, I could not wait for the lights to come on as my skin seemed to be reacting to static electricity. All the talking and projected images going on upfront were of little interest to me, I’m an Artist with a capital A and not a sociologist, and what was offered as food, was equally disappointing. Finally, there was a break and the lights came on and I could get a good look at this man-devil next to me. He had an awesome presence and was immaculately well dressed in a tux that was clearly made bespoke and made him look a little like a vampire count we see in those movies. I’ve seen very black sleek wavy hair before, but his, was something else indeed, something to behold. He also looked like he had a fresh tan, maybe he spent the last few days on a yacht or on some secluded beach I imagined. But he was alone, how could such a strikingly handsome man so well attired be unaccompanied?  Ah, I thought, here is a good conversation starter if I can be diplomatic enough about it.

Talking to this man turned out to be extremely easy, so much so that I got the distinct impression he was more eager to talk to me than I was to talk to him. I was somewhat pleasantly relived because this looked like I would have someone to hang out with for the rest of the event, and maybe he had friends that I could be introduced to. At the very least I could tag along and capitalise from his ability to socialise freely with strangers giving me the chance to stowaway in his wake and mingle in a group. I so feared to end up alone in some corner making that drink in my hand last as long as possible lest I be left standing with my hands in my pockets doing a broomstick impersonation. With the symposium finally over, everyone was once again redirected to the mezzanine level where the art exhibition was, to get the party started. I quickly asked him if he knew anyone and if not, would I be able to keep his company as I felt totally displaced, self-conscious, and very uncomfortable being all alone. He answered that he too was alone, a visitor to this town, knew no one and would be delighted to talk to me if I agreed to look at each work of art exhibited, and discuss its merits. I’d be delighted to do so I replied. Luckily the ugly woman and the scruffy man found good company in each other and went their merry way as they were constantly budding into my conversation with this mysterious man much to my annoyance and interrupting the rapport I was trying to garner.

The noise was by now getting quite loud as everyone was laughing and talking and the drinks were flowing. I noticed that Stanley was not drinking, and had not even touched the food at the table. He was also not smiling even though his tone and demeanour seemed friendly enough. There seemed to be an intent to his presence like he was here to gently and discreetly cut someone’s throat. This man exuded an otherworldly magnetism, and it did not escape my attention to how younger women were leering at him and pointing him out to their girlfriends. Of course, none of those bitches was looking at me, but more so, I was intrigued with the fact that he was more than willing to retain my company and lure me into a more private and quieter environment. As we looked at the art on display intently, he kept asking me prodding questions as if pushing me to make derogatory comments about the works on display that were all abstract paintings, some of them easily questionable and simply begged to be made fun of. But such is the world of modern art, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This to my way of thinking begs to question the values of the beholder at times, but that’s another story. We came upon the next display which consisted of a large rectangular canvass painted white with a great big X splashed on with what could have been a wide brush dipped in very fluid paint, thus making a big cross pattern in a splash of dots and streaks, and that was it!

We looked at each other, but I was reticent to make any derogatory remarks so I just smiled wryly trying to appear philosophical. That’s when he let go with a full-on broadside in a calm tone of voice:  What a load of shit this is. To think that there are millions of worthy Artists out there incapable of showing their work and being appreciated for their talents and mastery of their work.  Yeah, you’re looking at one, I instantly and carelessly exclaimed in that unguarded schoolboy like pent-up moment. Stanley finally got me to drop my guard and be honest with my feelings. I must confess, it felt good. It felt like I contributed to the conversation in a meaningful way, but the pangs of guilt for failing to remain neutral were equally felt. At this point, he turned around to face me square on as if to bypass all small talk and asked me a very direct question but not without asking for my permission first. Can I ask you a very personal question?  Sure, fire on, I replied and quickly warning him that I am not gay. He dismissed my warning like it was never said and asked: How would you like to become a world-famous Artist and very rich in the process as well, how would you like that?  I would love it, I’d have to be mad to say no, I replied immediately adding, but that’s not enough for me I want more and then some. I also want a bigger dick, and fat balls like you see on bulldogs, but how?  How can I force this condition on myself?

Have you heard of the saying it’s not what you know that gets you places, but rather who you know, surely you’ve heard this said before, yes?  Indeed I have, I replied, quickly following with, are you an art dealer?  An art dealer as such I a not, but I am the biggest wheeler and dealer of all time in the whole world if I can put it to you this way. Bullcrap! I immediately interjected further adding, if that was true how come you’re here all alone placed on table thirty-one at the back of the room all alone with the losers, and you turned up very late to boot, come on stop playing with me. By now Stanley and I had cemented a rapport I was very comfortable with, and started loosening up with my speech enough to begin using mild vulgarities and activating my inner devil that under normal circumstances in polite company would be curtailed.

My tone of voice betrayed my feelings of frustration, resentment, and aspirations for better things. I apologised to Stanley and explained it is because I can see so many artists getting massive exposure with what I considered to be utter nonsense, yet I was incapable of promoting myself and having my moderately valid work exposed to the world for me to make a name for myself and earn some money.

I knew that already, I won’t take umbrage at how you reacted to my statement Stanley replied, believe me when I tell you, that no one else knows as well as I do, how you feel about your artwork, what you think about the world of art, and how much you would like to be a part of it. Look… I interjected, but I was immediately smacked down back to a listening position as Stanley got friendly serious with me by saying; shut up and listen to me, do yourself the biggest favour ever, and just listen to me and don’t interrupt. I’m going to talk to you for a while. Sure, sure, sorry, go ahead Satan… oops sorry Stan, that one just slipped out of me, my devilish sense of humour and my chronic wordplay affliction. I laughed, adding please forgive me I’m listening. Stan’s eyes at that moment I said Satan, metamorphosed into the meanest most serious look like I never saw in anyone’s face. I felt an unusual sense of fear as that scent he was wearing now wafted stronger and somewhat intoxicating me like a hallucinogenic drug. The noise by now had escalated to that of a full-on party atmosphere, fuelled with free-flowing alcoholic drinks. Do you mind leaving this place and going somewhere quieter so we can talk business? Asked Stan. Sure, where would you like to go, I asked?  Shall we go to hell?  I added sniggering and laughing. Follow me to the lift lobby he replied, and I followed. We entered the lift, and Stan pressed the topmost button many floors up into the sky. I did not fail to notice that he did not use a swipe card for accessing the higher levels that would be out of limits to even the resident cardholders. Hmmm…. Interesting that!  Not a word was spoken for the few minutes it took the lift to reach the very top. The doors opened and Stanley firmly ordered me to follow him. We walked to the fire exit door and went up the stairs to the plant rooms above, to reach the very top of the skyscraper, once more noticing that Stanley was not using a card on the security readers, he was simply pushing the doors open. We now accessed the open space at the very top where the view of the city was just stunning with all the neon lights lit up, and the streets below looked like strings of Christmas lights stretching for miles. The city below spanning into a curved horizon looked like a huge painting in the balmy atmosphere of that cloudless night sky with a blaring full moon.

Stanley, I said, we must have tripped a shitload of security alarms coming up here, soon the security guards will come and we’ll be charged with trespassing. No one knows we’re here, don’t worry about those buffoons, he replied. Why have we come here so close to heaven? I asked in a sarcastic way thinking I was clever and witty. Would you rather I had taken you to the basement closer to hell?  Stanley replied. Touché! I conceded.

I’m going to ask you one more time, Stanley stated sternly!  How would you like to be very rich and very famous?  Yes, I would, I would also like a bigger dick and fatter balls, but how the fuck am I going to achieve that? I asked anxiously. I can do that for you, Stanley replied.

Holy fuck and a handful of salted peanuts I quipped, further asking in an impish mocking tone, and a sideways smile with slit eyes; are you the devil?

To be continued.

If you want to read the rest of this story, you will have to buy my book “I Am Artist  (you can be too)”

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THE EXPLOITATION OF THE ARTIST.

Over time my experiences and observations lead me to notice that there is a big business going on out there in cyberspace baiting budding artists to join up, pay the fee or whatever, and get their work published for sale on the world wide web.  One of my comments during any general discussion about art is that nowadays everyone is an artist, the statistics I jest, are eight people out of five are artists.  Of course, this is a wry joke on my part.  Picasso is quoted as saying that every child is born an artist, most people grow out of it.  I think he was very right.  Picasso had an amazing intellect from what I read about him.  I also rightly or wrongly blame him for opening up the flood gates to every wannabe artist with little if any skill, so inadvertently Picasso made it possible for many adults to rediscover their childhood.  I’m not being malicious here as I probably fit into this category myself, my inner critic says.

Either way, the internet is full of personal websites that belong to accomplished artists and some lesser ones to be very sure, who knows how many millions of personal artist’s websites are active right now.  For sure this vast number of budding artists has spawned a new industry that exploits these hopeful souls by baiting them into thinking they will make money selling their shit… oh, excuse my Freudian slip, their original works on line and becoming a farm-moose artist.

Now here once again we see where my wry and impish sense of humour manifests itself.  We all know what the saying “chasing a wild goose” means.  Now to me, a moose is a weird looking animal, ungainly and funny looking with that camel like droopy mouth. Now imagine a moose on a farm chasing the proverbial wild goose, and there you have it a perfect combination of wordplay and rhyme coupled with a comical scenario.  So then when I say he’s a farm-moose artist, you now know that I mean he’s chasing the unattainable dream of wanting to become a famous artist, and perhaps looking foolish and comical as a moose on a farm would, chasing the wild goose.  Wow, now that was a long-winded explanation eh? Let me catch my breath, but yes it was necessary.  

So, all the farm-moose artists out there now sign up to these websites and other companies that use their art on their products, basically provide these artists with the service of exposing them on the internet, or as the new age youcanologists would say, “put it out to the universe”. Yes, there are smart benevolent wolves out there quick to identify an opportunity for making money from people's hopes and dreams of making it big, and damn I wish I was one of them.  They start up these website industries baiting in all the hopefuls and sit back raking in the money flow from related fees, services, upgrades, special privileges and whatever else.  The vast majority of these hopefuls however, will never sell a single turd… aww damned, done it again, excuse moi.  They will never sell a single piece of… careful, a piece of their work!  

But always there will be some that will sell at least one painting or other work of art at least once and may never sell again.  However, for the owners of these sites, these few and scattered sales amount to a substantial number that will earn them their cut. What's wrong with that you might ask?  Nothing really, better than everyone staying home doing nothing and watching television.  But the fact remains that like bleating sheep, the artists are all gathered in one place for the purpose of harvesting all that can be harvested from them as previously described.

Even sadder is the fact that on a lot of these shared sites you will come across some accomplished artists whose work is displayed alongside the scribbles of a child that signed up into the same website. Most of these sites or at least the ones I’ve come across have categories listed for the viewers to click onto so as to see only the art that interests them.  Alas, no one from the website administration checks this, so you click on oil paintings and you get some meaningless scribble produced on a phone or the product of some art program in someone’s tablet or an ocean of Manga.  There is so much of this shit uploaded on some websites that the discerning viewer can easily be put off and click away.  The internet is beyond a doubt the best thing that ever happened for opening up the world to homebound artists and professional artists alike, unfortunately, there is so much unadulterated crap mixed in with the good work of these artists, that this can get a little tiring.  I blame the producers and administrators of these art sites for this.  They want as many signees as possible, but the work of monitoring the categories is no doubt an intensive one, so they don’t bother.  

But would we be right in thinking that the thousands of artists out there are being exploited?  In some cases probably yes, and for sure one cannot call these people that offer these "rainbow" services scam merchants because, in reality, they are not scamming anyone.  It's just that what they promise is very most likely to never come to pass. Still, it is better for the unknown artist to get any and as much exposure by increasing one's presence on the internet any way possible.  One never knows who might see the work, and what opportunities this exposure might attract.

The false doctrine of youcanology in the self-help industry.

Is it really possible to change one’s own life like the myriads of those self-help and positive thinking books tell us?  Is it really true that we can be, and we can do whatever we like if only we believe so?  And what about that other bit of New Age advice to “put it out there to the universe” and it will come to us by way of the law of attraction?  Do you believe in what these life coaches teach that everything depends on you alone, and everything that happens to you is your responsibility and the result of your actions, do you really believe all that stuff?  I did, I did with all my very heart, mind and soul.

A very quick Google query revealed that the sale of self-help material is worth twelve billion dollars annually.  That’s a lot of dildos… oops sorry, I meant to say dollars.  With such vast sales of these “yes you can” books and the constant preaching of how limitless the human mind is, one has to ask the question how come so few ever break out of their daily rut and money poor uneventful lives?  Having read all the classics on this philosophy, I was bombarded with the message yes you can, you can do it, you can do anything.  As time passed and life showed its realities to me, I started calling this the pseudo religion of Youcanology. Whilst researching this subject, I clicked on YouTube and found a video of Zig Ziglar doing his spiel, I paused the video and clicked on another of a southern American evangelist doing his brand of performance.  This caused me to toggle from one video to the other, they both looked identical to me with that accent and animated mannerisms.  The only difference was that one sold God and his belief system, and the other sold the belief that you can do and be whatever you like if you just believe you can.  According to this belief system, I believed I could be the King of England you see, that position has been vacant for many years.  So, I took the advice that I could do this and become the King of England and kept sending in my resumes to Buckingham Palace but I never got a reply.  Shame that!  I could have done well in that position, really I could have, if you get my drift. 

Strange too that some of these modern teachers of youcanology will tell us how they turned their lives around and became millionaires.  And how did they do that?  They did it by reinventing themselves as life coaches and high priests of youcanology, touring the world giving lectures on “yes you can” mirages, and selling their books, CDs, seminars, and courses, and charging thousands of dollars for appearing in person as guests to corporations for a live pep talk to their executives and other valued employees.  Some people are addicted to these books that are based on meritocracy and the message that yes you can be whatever you want to be, and yes you can do whatever you want.  This philosophy hinges on mere belief, and unsubstantiated facts that have no scientific credibility but are preached by highly polished and immaculately dressed gentlemen with pleasant voices, perfect diction, and convincing personalities.  Some of these high priests of youcanology constantly sell the message that yes you can, yes you can if only you believe. 

The law of attraction is a fabricated term, there is no such law.  The law of gravity as an example is scientifically substantiated, however there is no such law as the law of attraction in science, as postulated by these self-professed luminaries will have us believe.  They call it a law, simply to give this invention credibility, and make it sound authoritative.  They tell us that like attracts like.  Now let’s see if the negative poles of two separate magnets attract or repel each other, you know the answer.  The bullshit law of attraction is fully discussed in one of the books I’m currently writing.  I explain what it is about this so called "law of attraction" they tell us that like attracts like.  I compare this to something akin to a comfort zone whereby people are attracted to others similar to themselves whom they feel comfortable with.  Imagine inviting a large number of unrelated people from different backgrounds to a meeting.  In this gathering, all the motorbike riders wearing their leathers and unknown to each other would group together, and those wearing office garb would do the same in this meeting if you get my drift.  What little truth there might be to this so called law is a very superficial one at best. I go much deeper than that in my book, this is just a very shallow example. 

You need to know that I do not under any circumstances set myself up as an authority or mislead the reader into thinking that I have serious credentials for preaching what is real and what is false in life.  I do however have a deep personal life experience chasing this rainbow of youcanology, and studying the theories and the “laws” for attaining wealth, and a fulfilling lifestyle under the awning of the top deck of my luxury yacht.  Life is alive, it has an energy of its own, and things happen to people that they cannot control no matter what these false gods of youcanology tell us.  I get so annoyed when I read statements like “I make my own luck” and “I make my own opportunities”.  Then there are the statements that negate the existence of luck destiny and fate.  Right, so the girl that got killed whilst waiting for the bus in the southern Sydney suburb of Kogarah did not suffer bad luck, it must have been her fault for being there that day when a car mounted the kerb and hit everyone there waiting for the bus.  The authors of these books are false prophets selling us a false belief system that contains many truths and good advice but ultimately lead to disappointment.  If I told you that air contains life sustaining oxygen, you would have no trouble believing this fact.  Thus I could say that if you breathe deeply and very fast every day for ten minutes, you could reverse the aging process, and I could sell you a book about the benefits of breathing with intent, whilst connecting with the universe, and your life will change.  Remember the saying that a good lie contains elements of truth.  The reason also people that ascribe to youcanology fail to rise above the average is because they just do not have what it takes to become a self-made person.

For sure and absolutely yes, a person can change lifestyle and habits, one only needs two things:  self-awareness, and the desire to do so.  You must want to do it.  But those two things are not enough by themselves, you need to have persistence and determination over a long time.  Also, the reality is that stellar success such as becoming rich and famous is not on the menu for the majority of the Earth’s population.  Destiny decides that some will be born in third world countries, forever poor and victimized by wars and famine.  No amount of positive thinking will help the starving and diseased Biafran child, such is life.  Then there are the “lucky” ones, yes, the lucky ones that are born into wealth and fame.  Baby George, became famous even before he was born.  Simply because he was fated to be born into British royalty.  No such thing as luck?  Where did you read that?  Throw that book away.

What those life coaches and motivational speakers false prophets do not tell us, is the reality that not everyone is cut out for achieving success in life.  Some people are beyond help, they lack whatever it is that’s necessary to make them question their position in life, and the ability and willingness to actually do so.  Those of us that do and attempt to do so, may be hampered by outside forces and conditions that do not favor a high level of success.  That’s the reality of life my venereal friend, you better believe it.  But here is the good news, a better life can be had by those that want to improve themselves, this however can be achieved only within the parameters of one’s own abilities, circumstances, knowledge and skills and other similar attributes, and very importantly, who you know.  You have to improve yourself as a person first, you don’t see millionaires spending their time watching television most of the night every night, eating junk food and smoking stinkarettes all day long, and wasting what little money they have getting tattoos.  But these types would not even have the awareness needed to ask themselves, how can I better myself and have a better life?  That variety of people are also discussed in my book and are referred to as the “esfad” people, I give there a full explanation of that term in the third chapter containing phrases in common usage and meaning of words and terminology you will come across whilst reading my writings.  I dedicated this book to all the wonderful people who aspired success in the entertainment and creative industries such as musicians, actors, writers, artists, prostitutes, and street sweepers who like myself started off life full of promise and at one stage the future looked very good, but that bitch Fate, decided differently.  Those of us now of mature age who are still strong enough and willing to rise above the average and attain a fulfilling lifestyle, will find my book enjoyable to read, hard hitting with life’s truths, and the encouragement to try again one more time, yet again, just once more to escape the mouse wheel and achieve fulfillment in this wonderful life, on planet Earth.   Also too, I am most pleased to see the groundswell of people voicing their opinion about the rip off nature of the self-help industry, and the way they preach about “laws” that they’ve made up, gimmicky catch phrases like fake it till you make it, and deny the realities of life that cannot be fully explained or understood.  Youtube has several good videos from ordinary people voicing their opinions in fearless and candid fashion.  It is about time we turned our backs on these false prophets of youcanology, and stop making them rich buying their bullshit.

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