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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

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Weak XIX


7 May 2010

gratuitous image

No. 992 (cartoon)

Is your hearing getting worse?

I don’t know; I’m not listening.

8 May 2010

Amorousness Gone Awry

Duane reported that he spent a torrid night with a beautiful woman he met at an opening. Unfortunately, the affair ended rather badly.

“She was gone when I woke up in the morning,” he lamented.

“Sorry to hear that,” I commiserated. “Do you think that you’ll ever see her again?”

“I sure hope so,” Duane replied. “I’d like to find out what her name is, and what happened to my wallet.”

9 May 2010

The Unfortunate Dallas Braden

I’m not very interested in baseball, despite my naïve fascination with statistics. (I’m assured that there’s more to baseball than numerical data, but I have yet to discover what that might be.)

Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but notice in the news that Dallas Braden pitched a perfect game today, only the nineteenth perfect game in the history of professional baseball. I have no idea what makes a perfect game perfect, but I’m captivated by the concept of perfection.

Perfection doesn’t exist in my world. There’s no such thing as the perfect artwork, the perfect piece of music, the perfect film, the perfect story, the perfect cartoon, et cetera. And there certainly aren’t perfect friends or loves.

I’m happy living in an imperfect world; I enjoy the lack of certainty. Conversely, I feel sorry for Dallas Braden: what does he have to look forward to tomorrow?

10 May 2010

gratuitous image

Zee Source de Passion?

Amanda showed up at my studio with a bottle of cheap Bordeaux. It wasn’t very good and didn’t last very long; funny how that works. As we sailed into a second bottle, we marveled at the first bottle’s cork. It was inscribed with the words, Source de Passion.

We wondered about the source of passion: what was it? The wine? Perhaps the cork? Or perhaps it was just, as the French would say, zee question philosophique.

Amanda and I have never been passionate, at least not with each other. We concluded that zee Source de Passion was just another bit of advertising hyperbole. French stylee, with a bit of zee oh là là.

11 May 2010

Allende’s Persuasive Rationale

As is self-evident, I’ve been emancipated from the restrictive tethers of the truth since, well, since forever. I’ve never had a rational or philosophical base for my fibs and fabrications; falsification and fiction have always come naturally.

Isabel Allende’s smarter than me, but then who isn’t? The author observed, “I can’t see what’s the point of a bland, gray truth if you can tell a wonderful, colorful lie.”

I’ll try to remember that if I ever need to justify my falsehoods. Allende’s rationale sounds so much better than the simple truth that I’m deeply lazy.

12 May 2010

Showing Theresa a Good Time?

I cooked up a tasty dinner for Theresa tonight.

“You know how to show someone a good time,” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“I just wish I was that person,” Theresa continued.

I think she was joking, but I was afraid to ask. I’ve learned to never ask a question if there’s a likely answer that I won’t want to hear.

13 May 2010

Art Work versus Work Work

Cheryl asked me what’s so great about being an artist. I was tempted to quote Tom Stoppard*, but that seemed like too much work.

“Artists don’t have to work,” I explained without explaining anything.

“But you work all the time,” she said.

“Ahh,” I replied, “but that’s art work, not work work.”

“What’s the difference?” Cheryl asked.

“Work’s not really work if it’s art,” I again explained without explaining.

“That’s not a very good answer,” she responded.

I resisted the temptation to point out that she hadn’t posed a very good question, either. I realized that the pointless conversation was starting to feel like work, so I changed the subject.

* “What is an artist? For every thousand people there’s nine hundred doing the work, ninety doing well, nine doing good, and one lucky bastard who’s the artist.”

14 May 2010

Taller than Big Rain

Stephanie raised the usual concern when I said that I wouldn’t mind moving back to the Pacific Northwest: “It rains too much.” I’ve heard that argument so many times that I had a ready rebuttal.

“The average annual rainfall in Portland and Seattle is just under a meter a year,” I explained. “I, however, am nearly twice that height, so I’ll be fine.”

Stephanie nodded in agreement.

I was dumbfounded. That may have been the first time one of my specious rationalizations was accepted without argument.


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©2010 David Glenn Rinehart

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