Once upon a time there was a boy that dreamed to be an artist, be famous, get tons of money for a single painting, get laid with pretty girls and paint with total liberty whatever he had on mind.
He went to an art school. There he learned about the masters: Michelangelo, Donatello, Leonardo and Rafael. His idols from childhood, the ninja turtles. Life could not be better.
First semester was great, second fantastic but the third was shit. New teachers and no more emphasize on technique but on content. He discovered modern art, conceptual art, installations, happening, interventions, video art, land art, serial art, street art, sound art, neo conceptual art, live art, robotic art, op art, pop art, plop art, penis enlargement art and breast augmentation art. It was too much for him. How the hell he was going to make it?
He tried mix media. His first piece was demolished but his teachers. That is not art, they told him, is not a painting, neither a photograph nor a sculpture. It was a piece of crap. But he did not surrender, he tried land art and again was the star of the school. A gallery sign him up and he got a solo show for his pieces of crap by the end of the year.
His classmates could not believe it. How was possible that people spend so much money on his pieces of crap. He did not care and continue working hard. His crap was selling well and as he could afford to create more expensive artistic projects. He realized he did not needed to finish the art school to be considered and artist. I am already an artist, he said and left.
Two years passed, he was famous, had many exhibitions and was hook on drugs. One day right after finish another piece of conceptual art, sneezed some cocaine and went out to party. He danced all night, drink few beers then returned to his studio and lied down on the concrete floor of his studio and thought: I have done too much crap. It is time for serious art now.
|Nu Couche de Do, Amadeo Modiglian.|
I had the chance to talk to him yesterday. His eyes were very red. He told me his daughter had bleeding nose and nightmares so he spend most of the night time next to her. I am clean he said, I don't do crap anymore and my kids are my greatest pieces of art. We finished our beers and keep talking for three hours. By the time I was leaving his partner entered the room and gave him cookies, I said good bye.
He asked me not to reveal his new name neither few of the paintings he let me photograph. One day he told me, but no yet.
|Rob Pruitt – Holy Crap (2012), The Fireplace Project.|