I Am A Better Artist Than Stephen Hawking
Sometimes, I forget that I am a shittier drawer than Stevie Wonder.
In these moments, I realize that all of my previously wretched pictorial creations were anomalous misrepresentations of my artistic talent. So what if I was once unable to draw a tick-tack-toe board? That was yesterday! Today, I take drawing seriously.
The past matter not, for, in the present, I am enthused! I see, now, that art is not about talent, but heart, and I really, really want to art well.
Allie Brosh writes this awesome blog which has funny words AND funny pictures, and I very much want to hand-illustrate my blog, too, because that blog has a book deal and because I yearn to share my brain pictures with the world!
I set about feverishly sharpening my colored pencils. So what if all prior evidence suggests that a massive brain tumor is feasting on my hand-imagination coordination?
I’ve just remembered that I’m an artistic savant, and I’m about to make Crayola magic all over the place.
It is important that I draw what I know. I ask myself, what am I feeling in this moment? My psych conjures an image of me eating a Cinnabon. I begin intensely scribbling these innermost desires, which evolve, as I sketch, to include a second Cinnabon and world peace.
When Glenn gets home, I present him with my masterpiece. “Look what I made today!” I exclaim, holding out my iPad with as much modesty as I can muster.
“Ohhh.” He examines the drawing slowly, marveling at the sudden emergence of my latent virtuosity. His brow furrows, and I realize that he is, understandably, concerned that Jimi and I will take the picture on an international gallery tour while he is left to wallow in the creative confines of architecture.
Finally, he speaks. “Why did you draw a Japanese sex doll?”
“Excuse me!?” I gasp, snatching my masterpiece from his judgmental hands. I stalk back to my lair (the corner where I’ve shoved my desk) to examine it, again, myself. Hmm.
It appears that I have drawn an inflatable prostitute who is also, it turns out, a deformed double-amputee.
I drew from my heart, from my innermost self, I think mournfully.
My spirit animal is a poorly manufactured pleasure doll.
Repressed arting memories abruptly awaken, and my lengthy history of demented and inadvertently sexual illustrations flashes before my eyes.
As you can see, I don’t have a problem thinking up awesome things to art. I am a visionary, and I am hemorrhaging inspiration. When it comes down to artistry, I am 98% great ideas, 2% successful execution. I am the United Nations; the Communist Manifesto. I am reinforced levees around New Orleans; I am the Partition of Palestine. I am Google+.
I am a shitty, shitty artist, and I’m not about to give this shit away for free.
Believe me, I would love to have a blog like that amazing one with the hand-drawn hilarity, but there are lots of rich morons out there who will pay top dollar for a genuinely shitty piece of art.
The shittier the better! If it’s shitty AND fashioned out of “upcycled” industrial debris, we’re talking thousands of dollars. The industrial debris is radioactive? Tens of thousands! It’s a monkey-eunuch finger painted onto a paper towel using only enriched uranium and actual shit? Here’s one million dollars, a Nobel Prize and a Nike sponsorship.
So, this is the last free art you’ll get from me.
It is a picture of Jimi urinating on a patch of grass while a homeless woman leaps out from behind a Coke vending machine and threatens to kill him. (Inspired by true events which took place this afternoon.)