“No one appreciated Van Gogh until after he died,” they said, like it was a reason to keep going. I saw it as a reason to stop.
I hadn’t painted in months. “What a shame,” I thought, “to be a modernist in a world already modernized.”
I was evicted from my apartment. I had painted a mural on the wall – I was proud of the piece. It was a Victorian pastiche featuring subtle portraits of political leaders and civil innovators.
“That’ll be two grand, for the damage to the wall,” said the landlord, yellow drool splashing against his sweaty chest. Meanwhile in England, Banksy stencils a rat on a police station and sells it for a million dollars cash. Continue reading