Don't look so sad I know it's over

"...I'm not sure about the rape one"

A worn black plastic Croc swung from her swollen ankle like a piece of over ripened fruit as the artsy woman, spread out alone over half of the gallery bench with a pale alabaster unshaven doughy leg exposed from between the drapery of a large black muumuu, loudly pontificated.

How does one respond to such profound artistic criticism like that?

To be fair, she did start her statement with, "it's a nice show...". But, regardless how her criticism started, it ended with a comparison of my art to a rape.

"Well, it's only rape if everyone involved doesn't have fun" , I returned to an almost empty room of opening night gallery visitors.

You know those times in your life when you say something to a group of people and the very instant it leaves your lips you realize that it was a completely inappropriate thing to say. Every spoken syllable echoes in your head while you pray to whatever Godd you kneel before to grant you a single wish of turning back the clock and never uttering whatever statement that you will now regret for eternity. Well, my retort to my grandiose critic was not one of those times. In fact, I said it loud enough so that even people in the lobby of the gallery heard it and dipped their heads in to see what kind of Cro-Magnon would even utter such a crime.

The several audible gasps was payment enough for a show that didn't sell a single goddamn thing.

..And so ended my short career as an artist of Metro-Detroit.

As a young child I was told that if you can't leave a party with elegance and demure, leave the party by vomiting on the shoes of everyone in the room, that way everyone will remember you. A month later, when the show ended and my van was packed with all my unsold artist treasures for the long return journey home, I knew that I would never be returning to the gritty underbelly that is the Detroit art world. I was free. The chains had been broken and I wouldn't even beg for reparations.

My wonderful wife made a comment the other night, "Why is it on Facebook that when someone posts pictures from a Detroit art show, there are always the same seven people there?"

I told her that those seven people must come for the free wine and cheese, because they aint coming to buy art.

I have learned from my last solo show that's never a good thing to get anchored to something larger than yourself. There is always a risk of drowning when that large chunk of shit sinks. From this point on, I am now insisting that I be considered one of Muskegon's premier visual artists. It's a safe bet that Muskegon cant sink any further from where it's at.

If life is making you feel like a little fish, put on your big boy pants and walk to a smaller pond. Smaller ponds are not so bad. Smaller ponds have studios with twice the size and half the rent and a fucking great beach on Lake Michigan to roll around drunk on in the middle of the week. Small ponds also don't have fat ladies in muumuus comparing your work to a prison rape. Nope, the fat ladies here are happy to get what you fucking give them and say thank you for sharing.

"Don't look so sad I know it's over

But life goes on and this world keeps on turning, yeah

Let's just be glad, we have this time to spend together

There is no need to watch the bridges that were burning"