Soul Food
The middle-aged artist approached the old
monk sitting cross-legged in the center of a vast frozen plateau somewhere in
the middle of Tibet. Behind him
was a long line of other artists waiting to confer with the old monk. The middle-aged artist stopped and pulled
from his knapsack a small painting and a display easel which he promptly set
before the monk. Cowled in
black sheep skin, the monk was proclaimed to be the ultimate
authority in the Real Meaning of Muddies by those who should know better, which incidentally qualified the monk
to be an art critic of the first order. Slowly,
the old monk looked up and examined the middle-aged artist and, with a wave of the hand, beckoned the artist to come forward and proceed with his case.
“Oh monk of the Real Meaning,” cried
the artist as he stamped his feet and blew on his hands to keep warm. “I started painting and creating art since
the price of coffee was a nickel, which is to say, a very long time. But I was always endeavoring to create my one
masterpiece, and after many decades of trial and error, I think that what I am presenting before
you is that one. Could you look at it
and say this is so, and if not, why not?
Tell me, so I may learn and take heart in my continual quest for
perfection.”
“You have come to the right woman, my
son,” said the monk.
“Woman?” said the artist,
startled. “I presume you were a
man. Sorry, no offense but aren’t monks
supposed to be men?”
“I am deeply offended. Is my advice
worth less because I’m a woman?”
asked the monk. “I’m also Dutch, and I
bet you a dollar that you thought I was Tibetan, didn’t you? Come on, admit it. Remember, one of the greatest virtues of Art
is Truth.”
“Oh, all right. Here’s your dollar,” pouted the artist.
“I will now hum my mantra for at least
five minutes, for you have really, really upset me,” claimed the monk.
She began to hum in earnest while the
artist looked at his watch. Finishing
with the national anthem of Holland,
the monk said softly, “Will this be cash or charge?”
“I have to pay for this?” said the
artist with eyebrows raised. “Hey, I
thought these critiques were on a quasi-religious level, way above the crassness
of money or profit.”
“Nothing, of any worth, is free, my
son, as you should well know by now.
Everything has a price, including advice. If it is given freely, it will be worthless,
especially if it's free advice. Now, let me repeat
myself, will this be cash or charge?” as she laid out the credit card imprint
machine on the white snow.
Will a Visa card do?” sighed the
artist as he fumbled for his wallet with his frozen fingers. He began flapping his arms to keep warm as she slid the credit card through a slot in the machine.
The monk nodded and began to focus
intently at the artist’s painting. It was a still-life of an eclectic bowl of fruits. “To begin with, your apples are perfectly
drawn and painted with the right textures, but it is of little
consequences. Your selection of colors
for your red bananas are perfect and all in the right places, but that matters little." Again, she pauses, then continues. "Your foreground of green cherries harmonized with your
background of wall paper designs…a most difficult thing to accomplish, but that
too is also insignificant. …..As for it
being a masterpiece, well, what can I say, except (Yawn) that the painting
definitely meets all the requirements of a good painting, and all the rules
have been met, indeed, even exceeded.
“I can surmise by your constant yawning that my painting is boring you, Are you implying, by wordy nuances, that my painting is
not a masterpiece...because I haven’t broken any rules? Is that what you're suggesting?” asked the
artist, incredulously.
“Master artists do not break rules,
they merely invent new ones. And
evidently you haven’t…but that still is of no matter,” answered the monk.
“Well, damn it, what does matter?”
cried the artist.
“Let me put it this way, my son," said the monk, as she looked over his head, eyeing the long line behind him. "Your precious painting is like a lovely,
beautifully decorated living room…that nobody has ever lived in. And that is what really matters. Grasp that and you may yet turn out a
masterpiece. Times up. Who’s next?"
