Imperfection

Prompt: The Artist’s Eye


Hello Wednesday,

Two of the framed artworks that hangs on the walls of this home got here in rather strange ways.

One I purchased at a silent auction— it is a large abstract piece with a compact multi-coloured blob in the centre in shades of fuscia, green, and royal blue, which you could say compete with the other colours in the living room (warm reds, woods, muted yellows). You could also call it …imperfect. Yes, that’s the word. It ended up on my wall because as I cruised the silent auction goodies, I noticed that no one had bid on this imperfect work of art, so lovingly created and so generously donated by the artist to a good cause. So I entered my bid. Sometimes silent auction items need a kick-start.

Naturally mine was the only bid, and I don’t buy art and put it in the garage. So there it hangs, just around a little corner so it’s not always in view, which is fine with me.

The other work of “art” was discovered by some builders in the old garden shed of the old house that used to sit on this property. This is an oil painting, a landscape in muted, muddy colours with a mountain and a tree, no doubt the masterpiece of previous owners. While the contractors were busy with the renovations, they placed this painting on the mantle of the fireplace.

When we had our house-warming party, all the builders and tilers and tradespeople were invited (they did a splendid job) and as a kind of inside joke, we framed and hung this sincere painting on a prominent wall. They just loved it!

Yet years later it still hangs there, in a gilded gold frame, flanked by two lovely watercolours. Why? I don’t know. It reminds me of the excitement that surrounded the building of this new house, and the thrill of the first few days and months in a house that was all ours and with no notion of pulling up roots ever again.

Imperfection and sincerity. There could be worse words in an art critic’s vocabulary.

Related to art and the artist’s eye, may I present a few of my favourite cartoons?

cartoon-this-artist-is-a-deeply-religious-feminist-and-anti-smoking-advocate-who-new-yorker-cartoon_a-l-9182535-8419447

cartoon-you-rarely-see-this-kind-of-joy-for-under-ten-thousand-new-yorker-cartoon1

cartoon art ask not tell


See you tomorrow for Throwback Thursday!

~~FP

 

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Inside Out

Prompt: Unfinished


Good afternoon, Tuesday.

I don’t really consider the current U.S. election campaign to be political, or about policies, truth, accuracy, presidents, reality, or facts. It is about fantasy, horse racing, sound bytes, lies, laziness, racism, and sexism.

All because a person named Donald Trump is an actual candidate who may be elected to the presidency. Only because he is in the running. No candidate is perfect, but as I said, I do not consider him to be a political candidate. He is a joke. He redefines the word. There is no one word specific enough to describe this situation. (Jokemare? Crylaugh? Impossibull?)

You know how it is “too soon” to joke about some events, usually tragedies? This is like a “too soon” joke turned inside out. This kind of joke is always too soon and too late, simultaneously.

I don’t consider this post to be political, so I don’t think I need to explain or apologize.

With a tenuous relationship to today’s word prompt, “unfinished”, here is the first of several of my favourite cartoons:

cartoon-trump-cartoonist


cartoon-trump-inauguration


cartoon-trump-1


Peace and serenity,

~~FP

 

Normal

Prompt: Joke

woman with face tattoo

“It was just a joke,” Harrison told his father.

“It was no joke, it was a stupid act of a stupid boy,” said his father.

“Donald…” said his mother.

“You spoil him.”

“You abuse him.”

“Abuse him? I’ll show you abuse.” Harrison’s father struck his mother in the face with the palm of his hand. She only took a step back, but her face turned crimson.

Harrison wasn’t expecting the kick in the stomach. His father was more agile than he thought. He gasped for breath and fell on his knees. It didn’t hurt yet; it was such a surprise, but it would hurt later when Harrison was in his bed trying to sleep.

Harrison’s mother screamed in horror. Before she could reach her son, Harrison’s father picked up the glass of whiskey and threw it on the tile floor, where it shattered into a million pieces.

“Clean it up,” he said to his wife, and left the kitchen. They could hear his footsteps on the stairs, and then the loud bass of the television.

“He didn’t mean it,” Harrison’s mother said, as she knelt and pulled him into her arms.

“He didn’t?” said Harrison. It was like his mother was speaking in a foreign language. The whole house now looked alien to him. Was it his house? Did he belong here?

All his friends played jokes. He thought it was normal. Things were confusing, especially today, now, with his mother holding him so tightly, another angry welt on her left cheek.

“He was just not in the mood,” his mother said. Not in the mood? thought Harrison. Then I will try the salt joke again. Jokes are normal. He should learn to be normal. The world needed to be normal.

He asked his mother if he could go outside and kick the soccer ball around.

Harrison kicked the ball, hard, again and again, against the brick fence in the back, until his mother called him for supper. Only once did it go over the fence. Their neighbour’s daughter, who was visiting from France, tossed the ball back with a smile and a wave.