Last night I went out with an aspiring artist who I'd recently met at a party. I have a thing for creative, attractive women who give me their phone numbers, and she fulfilled all three requirements. There's something very sexy to me about a woman who can paint, write, sing, or play an instrument...as long as she's not pretentious about it. Though I hadn't seen her work, all indications from our brief pre-date conversations were that she was pretty down to earth.
The date was going as well as could be expected until we started discussing art. Although I like creative women, I know absolutely nothing about art. I've been to some galleries and museums in my day. I even took art history in college, but only because it was a requirement. So rather than pretend to know something about that which I know nothing, I decided to lighten the mood. After she mentioned the name of some obscure artist who she claims has deeply influenced her work, I told her my favorite artist was "The Joy of Painting" guy. I said I was amazed at how he could make those beautiful landscapes appear from almost nowhere, and that I found watching him paint very soothing. I think the date came to a dead halt around the point where I said he was a genius.
Although I thought I was making it abundantly clear that I was mocking my own ignorance on the subject, when I saw what appeared to be smoke coming out of her ears, I knew it was time to put an end to the "Joy of Painting" shtick. I quickly apologized and told her not to take anything I said seriously, but the ship had already sailed. My hope was that she might find my attempt at humor endearing, and possibly use it as an opportunity to educate me about art. Well, she didn't find me endearing, but she certainly tried to educate me. What followed was a ten minute lecture on how people in this country are uncultured and know nothing about the world beyond what they see on TV. She rattled off the name of every gallery her works been in, and she explained that anyone who painted trees on some show wasn't a real artist. The diatribe ended with a rant about how real artists suffer for their work, and that if I wanted to see "true art," I should check out her website. We then left the restaurant, and she said she was going home. I didn't take it personally. I just assumed she was in a rush to get back to the apartment that her father the doctor bought her on Central Park West so that she could get some good suffering done.
Although I thought I was making it abundantly clear that I was mocking my own ignorance on the subject, when I saw what appeared to be smoke coming out of her ears, I knew it was time to put an end to the "Joy of Painting" shtick. I quickly apologized and told her not to take anything I said seriously, but the ship had already sailed. My hope was that she might find my attempt at humor endearing, and possibly use it as an opportunity to educate me about art. Well, she didn't find me endearing, but she certainly tried to educate me. What followed was a ten minute lecture on how people in this country are uncultured and know nothing about the world beyond what they see on TV. She rattled off the name of every gallery her works been in, and she explained that anyone who painted trees on some show wasn't a real artist. The diatribe ended with a rant about how real artists suffer for their work, and that if I wanted to see "true art," I should check out her website. We then left the restaurant, and she said she was going home. I didn't take it personally. I just assumed she was in a rush to get back to the apartment that her father the doctor bought her on Central Park West so that she could get some good suffering done.
When I got home, I checked out her site. As I looked at some of her paintings, my uncultured mind that knows nothing beyond the world of TV thought that she could probably learn a thing or two from "The Joy of Painting" guy.
