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An Artist’s Notebook of Sorts

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Weak XIX


7 May 2015

gratuitous image

No. 5,862 (cartoon)

My worst nightmare is behind me.

You must be so relieved.

It was born dead.

8 May 2015

My Worthless Signature

A despicable thief stole almost everything in Fiona’s home, including my framed photograph of Jim Morrison’s grave in Cimetière du Père Lachaise I gave her for her wedding. She called me when she was filing papers with her insurance company.

“What’s the photograph worth?” she asked.

“Maybe a burrito or two,” I replied, “but the frame certainly had more monetary value.”

She protested that it was a great image (thanks, Fiona!), and that it had to be worth “quite a bit of money,” so I showed her a piece I made almost twenty years ago, Machine Art Art. (It’s also available as a PDF, suitable for framing!)

Here’s the relevant line from the work: “The signature is the product; art is the buy-product.” Any machinist can fabricate an exact replica of some of Donald Judd’s multi-million dollar sculptures, but without the provenance and signature they won’t sell for much more than the cost of time and materials.

As for Fiona, she’ll soon have another infinitely reproducible photograph of Jim Morrison’s grave as soon as I get around to printing it. I’ll charge her a burrito or two for the paper and ink, and will give her my worthless signature for free.

9 May 2015


Minnisha never wears matching socks; she claims that she never has. I believe her, especially after she showed up for lunch today wearing only one sock. She explained that she could only find a matching pair which would certainly bring very bad luck were she to wear them.

I have a number of friends who are stitious, but Minnisha is definitely super-stitious.

10 May 2015

Kissing Your Brother

Annalee and I have been seeing more and more electric bikes whilst cycling. Although I publicly disdain them, I confessed to her that I’m occasionally secretly envious when one passes me pedaling up a steep hill.

“You’ll never see me on one of them,” she replied. “Riding an electric bike is like kissing your brother; it’s not bad until someone finds out that you do it.”

I treasure some facets of my ignorance, so I didn’t ask her if she’d ever kissed her brother.

11 May 2015

The Wrong Pheromones

A few weeks ago Kiliaen told me that he’s met the woman of his dreams. When I asked him how he could be sure, he explained that she wasn’t real; he could only imagine her. He described meeting a woman he found extraordinarily attractive, and told her so. She informed him that he had the wrong pheromones, and that was the last he ever saw of her.

What a great line! Back in the days when I was looking for a romantic partner, I wish the women who declined my amorous advances had told me that I had the wrong pheromones; that’s perfect! I could have improved my appearance, income, and other factors that made me less than desirable, but there’s nothing anyone can do about their pheromones.

From now on, I’m going to blame pheromones whenever I have to turn someone down or decline an offer or request. I’m sorry; it’s the pheromones!


12 May 2015

The Hun’s M9

I’m a-gonna get me a new Leica camera, my first of the millennium. I already have five of ’em, but I don’t use film and they do. My Nikons are great cameras, but I’d prefer the digital Leica’s soulless German metal to my digital Nikons’ soulless Japanese plastic.

Sid approved of my acquisition. “The Hun certainly does make a good camera,” he remarked.

The Hun?!

13 May 2015

Gallons of Stewed Iguanas

I read a news summary this morning that was so great that I didn’t bother reading the article: “Mexican environmental authorities seize gallons of stewed iguana.”

I wonder what one does with gallons of stewed iguanas? Use them for stew is the obvious answer, but I’m wondering if iguanas are the type of critter that one doesn’t eat. Maybe the stewed iguanas are used for indigenous medicine? Fertility treatments? Sorcery? Snake bait? A practical joke?

I’m so glad I didn’t read what was no doubt a boring, predictable explanation. As a result, I can spend countless hours wondering about stewed iguanas, unhindered by a single fact.

14 May 2015

Timeless B.B. King

Gerrit told me that B.B. King died tonight. He waned poetic, and referred to King as “timeless.” Of course he’s timeless; he’s dead. And if death isn’t the time of no time, my name’s Priscilla Post.


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©2015 David Glenn Rinehart