The man who discovered that his head was made of cheese:
The man was fairly handsome. He looked at himself in the mirror with satisfaction, turned around, wiped his hands dry and then turned again and looked at his reflection. He combed his hair and shook his head to give them volume and a more natural look. He had started to go grey but his face looked youthful, despite a mild skin irritation that came and went, depending on the season and stress levels.
The man got into the lift. It was a small cubicle with a mirror covering one of the walls. He looked into it. He noticed that his shoulders were covered in a thin, white dust. He brushed it off and proceeded with his daily routine; unlock the door, go out, lock the door again, walk to the car, unlock the door, get in, put key in ignition, start driving, swear a little at other drivers, park near work, get out of the car, lock it, walk to work, call the lift. The sliding door opened in front of him and he got in the small cubicle that would take him to the floor where his office was. In there he found another mirror and in consequence another reflection. He noticed that the same sort of thin, white dust was covering his shoulders anew. He brushed it off and proceeded with his diurnal activities.
The man sat at his desk. He adjusted his chair, his mousepad and his keyboard and typed his password to log in at the company's network. Subsequently, he got up and walked to the kitchen to get his second cup of coffee. When he returned to his desk he noticed that the back of his chair was covered in dust, thin and white. He brushed it off and proceeded with his usual tasks. He worked for some hours straight with his eyes locked on the screen. Then he took a cigarette break and when he went back the thin white dust was there, waiting to be noticed. He looked at his shoulders and saw it there too. He brushed it off, unalarmed, and got on with his life like any other day.
The man worked for plenty more hours. In the elevator, that was taking him to the ground floor this time, he looked in the mirror and saw the familiar white dust on his shoulders. The driver's seat in his car was also covered by it. By the time he looked at himself again in the mirror that was in the lift at his house it was so much he could almost feel its weight on his shoulders.
The fairly handsome face looked a little bit tired in the bathroom mirror. The man passed his fingers through his hair, noticing the ratio of white towards black. A cloud of white dust floated in the air for just a minute and a while later landed on his shoulders, the toilet sink and on the floor. The man shook his head, creating thus a new cloud. "Honey!", he called, "Honey, I think I have a skin irritation. Do we have any sort of special shampoo?". Honey walked in the toilet and stood beside him. She leaned towards him and smelled his hair. "Honey!" she screamed, "I think your head is turning into headcheese!"
_________.__________
I keep my multicolored socks in the bottom drawer of by partner's closet. I could keep them in mine but in my bottom drawer I keep my medical records and old diplomas. Hence, as I was closing the first drawer, after I put on my black christmas socks with the red-nosed reindeers, I thought of two things.
a) that I have a fourth unreasonable fear (namely, that as I push the said drawer in with my foot I might catch my toes and feel excruciating pain) and
b) a new sex metaphor for art.
I love food, sex and art metaphors. This is the newest:
There is much talk around of the collapse of modern civilization, the failure of the bank system, the lowering educational standards and the fact that to get a job one has to sell one's soul. I will not disagree that we are indeed experiencing all the above but in my humble opinion none comes as a surprise. Yet, this is neither the place nor the time to start an analysis on this broad subject. I'll stick to selling one's soul. Of course I am referring to what is publicly understood by this expression and by no means am I making allusions to the paranormal. For artists this is nothing new. It's a common claim (although somewhat questionable) that the artist puts a part of his soul, expresses his or her soul through the work of art. This is also why there is this distinction between low-esteemed commercial artists and believers in high forms of Fine Arts. Yet, if the artist does not transcend from a hard-core bourgeois family of old thieves, impostors and money lovers, he or she is forced to either do a mundane job for a living and thus consumes valuable time and energy that could be used to pursue the making of a masterpiece, or makes compromises to the work and occasionally lowers the standards to please the unrefined masses.
It is excruciating difficult to find a balance between the two and further more, monetary transaction always make me think of prostitutes.
So, the artist studies hard (everybody hates fine art students because they don't fail as easily as others in their subjects. Do you know what? It is because we are in love with what we do. We are not just students or professionals, it is a way of life, it's what makes us tick.) and works hard and never stops working and then has to make a living. As an almost currently unemployed artist (I work once a week as a teacher, haven't got paid for two years and I am also a self-employed art practitioner but failing greatly in getting work through, postponing day after day finding a gallery to represent me) I am thinking that after all it would not be half-bad to do a job that would require the skills I obtained by studying even if it does not include communicating great ideas of form. And here comes the sex metaphor:
Say art is sex, in a society with loose morals, where it is alright to change partners every now and then. I as an artist, want to learn how to please my partners, so I study oral sex and become very good at it. Do I use this skill to become a porn star and does this compromise the quality of my blow-job? I could still make love with my partner and get famous by using only my mouth.
This is the sex-art metaphor for today and I would not like to add a moral conclusion. I only hope that my fourth unreasonable fear will never become an actuality. Have a nice day.
The man was fairly handsome. He looked at himself in the mirror with satisfaction, turned around, wiped his hands dry and then turned again and looked at his reflection. He combed his hair and shook his head to give them volume and a more natural look. He had started to go grey but his face looked youthful, despite a mild skin irritation that came and went, depending on the season and stress levels.
The man got into the lift. It was a small cubicle with a mirror covering one of the walls. He looked into it. He noticed that his shoulders were covered in a thin, white dust. He brushed it off and proceeded with his daily routine; unlock the door, go out, lock the door again, walk to the car, unlock the door, get in, put key in ignition, start driving, swear a little at other drivers, park near work, get out of the car, lock it, walk to work, call the lift. The sliding door opened in front of him and he got in the small cubicle that would take him to the floor where his office was. In there he found another mirror and in consequence another reflection. He noticed that the same sort of thin, white dust was covering his shoulders anew. He brushed it off and proceeded with his diurnal activities.
The man sat at his desk. He adjusted his chair, his mousepad and his keyboard and typed his password to log in at the company's network. Subsequently, he got up and walked to the kitchen to get his second cup of coffee. When he returned to his desk he noticed that the back of his chair was covered in dust, thin and white. He brushed it off and proceeded with his usual tasks. He worked for some hours straight with his eyes locked on the screen. Then he took a cigarette break and when he went back the thin white dust was there, waiting to be noticed. He looked at his shoulders and saw it there too. He brushed it off, unalarmed, and got on with his life like any other day.
The man worked for plenty more hours. In the elevator, that was taking him to the ground floor this time, he looked in the mirror and saw the familiar white dust on his shoulders. The driver's seat in his car was also covered by it. By the time he looked at himself again in the mirror that was in the lift at his house it was so much he could almost feel its weight on his shoulders.
The fairly handsome face looked a little bit tired in the bathroom mirror. The man passed his fingers through his hair, noticing the ratio of white towards black. A cloud of white dust floated in the air for just a minute and a while later landed on his shoulders, the toilet sink and on the floor. The man shook his head, creating thus a new cloud. "Honey!", he called, "Honey, I think I have a skin irritation. Do we have any sort of special shampoo?". Honey walked in the toilet and stood beside him. She leaned towards him and smelled his hair. "Honey!" she screamed, "I think your head is turning into headcheese!"
_________.__________
I keep my multicolored socks in the bottom drawer of by partner's closet. I could keep them in mine but in my bottom drawer I keep my medical records and old diplomas. Hence, as I was closing the first drawer, after I put on my black christmas socks with the red-nosed reindeers, I thought of two things.
a) that I have a fourth unreasonable fear (namely, that as I push the said drawer in with my foot I might catch my toes and feel excruciating pain) and
b) a new sex metaphor for art.
I love food, sex and art metaphors. This is the newest:
There is much talk around of the collapse of modern civilization, the failure of the bank system, the lowering educational standards and the fact that to get a job one has to sell one's soul. I will not disagree that we are indeed experiencing all the above but in my humble opinion none comes as a surprise. Yet, this is neither the place nor the time to start an analysis on this broad subject. I'll stick to selling one's soul. Of course I am referring to what is publicly understood by this expression and by no means am I making allusions to the paranormal. For artists this is nothing new. It's a common claim (although somewhat questionable) that the artist puts a part of his soul, expresses his or her soul through the work of art. This is also why there is this distinction between low-esteemed commercial artists and believers in high forms of Fine Arts. Yet, if the artist does not transcend from a hard-core bourgeois family of old thieves, impostors and money lovers, he or she is forced to either do a mundane job for a living and thus consumes valuable time and energy that could be used to pursue the making of a masterpiece, or makes compromises to the work and occasionally lowers the standards to please the unrefined masses.
It is excruciating difficult to find a balance between the two and further more, monetary transaction always make me think of prostitutes.
So, the artist studies hard (everybody hates fine art students because they don't fail as easily as others in their subjects. Do you know what? It is because we are in love with what we do. We are not just students or professionals, it is a way of life, it's what makes us tick.) and works hard and never stops working and then has to make a living. As an almost currently unemployed artist (I work once a week as a teacher, haven't got paid for two years and I am also a self-employed art practitioner but failing greatly in getting work through, postponing day after day finding a gallery to represent me) I am thinking that after all it would not be half-bad to do a job that would require the skills I obtained by studying even if it does not include communicating great ideas of form. And here comes the sex metaphor:
Say art is sex, in a society with loose morals, where it is alright to change partners every now and then. I as an artist, want to learn how to please my partners, so I study oral sex and become very good at it. Do I use this skill to become a porn star and does this compromise the quality of my blow-job? I could still make love with my partner and get famous by using only my mouth.
This is the sex-art metaphor for today and I would not like to add a moral conclusion. I only hope that my fourth unreasonable fear will never become an actuality. Have a nice day.
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