absense of tigers

A pet peeve and a related story:

I hate hate hate it when people see a piece of seemingly simple art – let’s say, a painting – and claim that they “could have done that.” (This absurd claim is usually preceded with an audible scoff – usually a “pfft” or a “psh.")

1) In most cases, the piece of art has some complexity that the untrained eye (mine included) cannot see. There is something stylistic, some sort of balance, some artsy something or other that makes the ignoramus's claim just plain untrue.

2) Secondly, independently, and, I think, more importantly, there stands the fact that the person in question did not, in fact, create the piece of art. This is as important as it is obvious.

An easy counter to the “I could have done that” would be:
“Oh yeah? Well, you didn’t. You did not draw that orange blob and place it curiously to the left of that black square. You did not roll around in paint and smear yourself over that canvas. You did not throw up on that easel and pass it off as art.

Could do (potential) and did do (taking a risk, creating) are worlds apart, and one cannot claim another’s artwork (reality) by virtue of their own self-proclaimed potential (fantasy).

The story:

So I find myself at an art gallery in my neighborhood. I do not, as admitted previously, have a keen eye for art. But there was a painting that caught my attention from the moment I walked in. It was hanging horizontally, about 2’’ by 4’’. It caught my eye not because of what I saw on it, but what I didn’t. It was, for all practical purposes, blank. Upon closer inspection, I made out some faint grey lines, and it did have a peach-ish tint.

I look at the label below it.

“Absence of Tigers.”

The pricetag: $600.

And as I stood there, I thought:

Genius.

snaps for that guy

Feeling mopey, overworked, and underappreciated by the adolescents at school, I go downtown Denver, looking for some equalibrium - or at least a pair new jeans.

I find neither on the park bench, but lay down and turn on my ipod.

Restless and annoyed with myself, I walk to a coffee shop off the beaten path. I sit down to a hard-boiled egg and rye toast. I try to write, but it is whiny and solipsistic.

A guy stand up near me and starts reading aloud from tattered mess of papers. I look around nervously, waiting for someone to "shh" him. Instead, everyone turns their chair and a barista cuts the background music, sounds I didn't notice were there until they were gone.

I find myself in the middle of a poetry reading.

His poem is about a girl named Shelby and their trip to Coney Island. Shelby, I later find out, is sitting right behind me, which explains her nervous laughter when he reads the more personal parts.

He describes the carnival, the weed they smoked, and the way Shelby danced on the beach like a little girl.

I walk out after another hour, feeling refreshed and reconnected with the inner sprits of the universe (no, I did not have any weed).

Finding oneself is overrated. And I already have too many pairs of jeans.