Soul Food





                                                    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?"