Yesterday which means Saturday, my best friend Camille and I went to a book festival. It wasn’t what I expected but that didn’t mean I didn’t’ have a great time. It was at a park downtown and had different vendors selling an array of books some local bookshops and some from self published authors. Others were just trying to get rid of things they had. Ever so often a local author would come up and read thrity minutes from their book. There was also singing and food and an art gallery.
I bought two books, signed up to volunteer for a few organization. I became a member of a few clubs and found others things I liked but knew I would never have time to get into. The art gallery was cool and weird. I like art because doesn’t have to make sense. But it’s weird because then anything can be art, my bed could be a piece of art. My shoes could too. It’s weird, who sets the standard of what art is. There is a artist, I forgot his name but most of his paintings weren’t even paintings or statues they were book covers. How is that considered art? He didn’t do it did he? I don’t know but I just thought it was crazy that someone would pay thousands of dollars for something they could go to the bookstore, pay three dollars for and frame it themselves. But that wasn’t even the weirdest thing, what got me was in one of the rooms there was a dead and stuffed horse. He lay on his side, legs sprailed out and mouth open with a bloated stomach. Inside the stomach there was a sign that about Jesus our King. This shocked me, it confused me too. This was art? This had meaning? What in the world I wondered did a dead and stuffed horse have to do with Jesus?
But that wasn’t his only piece, in another room there were stuffed dogs, they looked so live and friendly and between the two labs was a chicken. . . anyway one of the dogs is looking at you as you round the corner but quickly you learn that he isn’t looking at you he is staring at what is behind you. A woman is nailed to bed inside a crate, her face is hidden in her arm in shame. I think it was shame.
There was another work of his; two men lay side by side in a twin bed together staring up into the ceiling at nothing. I didn’t understand. I mean no they didn’t have to be staring at anything but they had to be looking at something, thinking about something. There had to be a mood there that made the artist put them in that pose but I couldn’t catch it. I didn’t understand and that was so frustrating to me. I stared at that thing for a long while before moving on just as clueless as I had been in the beginning.
The last piece I saw was just as disturbing as the first. Walking outside the building I saw a couple looking up at the roof. Naturally you wonder what are they staring at or at least I did. Up on the roof in the hot sun sat a little drummer boy staring down at us. His sleeves and pants were long his hair was brown and his skin white though it should have been red from the heat. His hands posed over his drum thought his eyes were looking down at it, they stare straight ahead over us and out into the city. It took me a second to realize this wasn’t a child but another twisted piece of art meant to startle the viewer. Disgusted with myself for getting worked up I had to walk away and think about the drummer boy later. I would love to meet the man who designed that piece one day but sadly I don’t think I ever will, he lives in Milan, Italy and his paintings sell for millions of dollars. I doubt he would really care what I think of his work, why should he?