The Art Critic
By Ben Corbett
By Ben Corbett
"D-d-d-damn them!" he stammered to himself, wrenching the letter in his hands. "It was that b-b-bastard Cubby the B-B-Bear again!"
Only the Ds and Bs were an issue when something jarred his nerves. Never the Ws, Ps and Fs. The doctors couldn't determine why he only stuttered in his thoughts and not in conversation. The results were inconclusive. So they gave him a lifetime scrip of Prozac, told him to get a hobby and wrote him off as a lost cause like all the other subjects with inconclusive results.
The hobby part proved to be a major hurdle. For nearly a year he languished over the possibilities. "Creative writing… hmmm," he thought for three months. "Small engine repair… hmmm," he thought for three more. "Fly tying… hmmm," he thought for another three. There weren't many choices on the back of the matchbook. And then surfing the Sunday paper one day, the Free Art Test! hit him like a freight train. "That's it!" he thought, his brain choking on a kernel of hope. "I'll b-b-be an artist!" It was a new sensation, this brain choking stuff, and he immediately called up both of his friends to share the excitement.
"Guess what!? I'm going to be an artist!"
"That's really great. So what else is new?" they both asked. AND THEN ANOTHER YEAR WENT BY. And he stood in the driveway for the fourth time with a head full of hate, the latest failing scores of the Free Art Test! wrinkled in his paws. The last time he scored a 52 out of 100, and this time it was a lousy 48. "D-d-d-damn them!" he stammered to himself, wrenching the letter in his hands. "It was that b-b-bastard Cubby the B-B-Bear again!"
Someone would suffer for this. Yes they would all suffer. He ran inside the house, called up the local newspaper and said, "I want to be an art critic."
"We can't pay you anything. Can you start today?" they asked.
"I'll be right over."
He went right over.
Silica Gel isn't Silica Gel's real name. Her real name is Wendy Slathers, but it didn't sound artistic enough, so she paid the $25 and went ahead and changed it.
Silica Gel is action not words, and her game is mystery. "To be an artist is to be art," her mantra goes, body mod is her passion, and one day she paid $3000 to have her left arm and leg amputated. It was a carefully orchestrated artistic statement. When she mummified the amputated limbs, using them as found materials for a sculpture, Silica Gel's parents blamed themselves, quickly disowned her and moved to Florida.
Silica Gel doesn't believe in crutches. She believes in standing on her own one foot. To get to the other side of the room, she pushes herself counterclockwise along the wall, shoving off in a rapid hand-foot motion. Stomp, slap, stomp, slap, stomp, slap. When ripping around, Silica resembles a lopsided ghost crab freshly dismembered by peasant kids. She had speculated on amputating her right limbs, but that would have meant hopping permanently clockwise, an idea which she considered too status quo. Silica pulled the furniture away from the walls of her apartment, creating a moat of matted carpet around the edges. With amazing feats of balance, she can hop from the front door to the kitchen at breakneck speeds. Eight seconds flat, and only the outside corners are still problematic. Silica Gel never eats out.
The art critic's mouth watered when he stumbled across the announcement for Silica Gel's opening at a local gallery. "Inward Journeys," it was called and he drove down there, pens loaded with venom. There were assorted libations. There were hors d'oeuvres. The theme song for The Waltons played softly in the background. Everyone wore expensive black clothes and talked about their frequent flyer miles. One guy tried to pull a fast one and inject some boring news about his Janus Fund portfolio. He was quickly clubbed to death and the frequent flyer miles conversation resumed.
"D-d-d-disgusting," thought the art critic, who spent the previous week standing before the mirror getting the "art critic" moves down. There was the sucking in of the cheeks to give his face that extra pinch. The aloof, pondering look in the eyes. The flick of the wrist when whipping out the notebook. Silica Gel also spent the previous week before a mirror elaborating the "artist look." The standard tight black dress that highlighted her curve. The grace of her hand slapping the wall when flipping around the gallery. The flamboyant flutter of the eyes when confronting a potential buyer. The hair twist around the pinky when approached by a critic.
When the gallery closed, the art critic pulled his car onto the sidewalk so Silica Gel could make it from the vestibule to the passenger seat with one easy hop. A true gentleman. The following Friday, she read the review twice. It was a marvelous rave. Full pager. Cubby the Bear never gave Silica Gel any problems, after all. She aced that test without sharpening a single pencil.
Ben Corbett Copyright 2002
Only the Ds and Bs were an issue when something jarred his nerves. Never the Ws, Ps and Fs. The doctors couldn't determine why he only stuttered in his thoughts and not in conversation. The results were inconclusive. So they gave him a lifetime scrip of Prozac, told him to get a hobby and wrote him off as a lost cause like all the other subjects with inconclusive results.
The hobby part proved to be a major hurdle. For nearly a year he languished over the possibilities. "Creative writing… hmmm," he thought for three months. "Small engine repair… hmmm," he thought for three more. "Fly tying… hmmm," he thought for another three. There weren't many choices on the back of the matchbook. And then surfing the Sunday paper one day, the Free Art Test! hit him like a freight train. "That's it!" he thought, his brain choking on a kernel of hope. "I'll b-b-be an artist!" It was a new sensation, this brain choking stuff, and he immediately called up both of his friends to share the excitement.
"Guess what!? I'm going to be an artist!"
"That's really great. So what else is new?" they both asked. AND THEN ANOTHER YEAR WENT BY. And he stood in the driveway for the fourth time with a head full of hate, the latest failing scores of the Free Art Test! wrinkled in his paws. The last time he scored a 52 out of 100, and this time it was a lousy 48. "D-d-d-damn them!" he stammered to himself, wrenching the letter in his hands. "It was that b-b-bastard Cubby the B-B-Bear again!"
Someone would suffer for this. Yes they would all suffer. He ran inside the house, called up the local newspaper and said, "I want to be an art critic."
"We can't pay you anything. Can you start today?" they asked.
"I'll be right over."
He went right over.
Silica Gel isn't Silica Gel's real name. Her real name is Wendy Slathers, but it didn't sound artistic enough, so she paid the $25 and went ahead and changed it.
Silica Gel is action not words, and her game is mystery. "To be an artist is to be art," her mantra goes, body mod is her passion, and one day she paid $3000 to have her left arm and leg amputated. It was a carefully orchestrated artistic statement. When she mummified the amputated limbs, using them as found materials for a sculpture, Silica Gel's parents blamed themselves, quickly disowned her and moved to Florida.
Silica Gel doesn't believe in crutches. She believes in standing on her own one foot. To get to the other side of the room, she pushes herself counterclockwise along the wall, shoving off in a rapid hand-foot motion. Stomp, slap, stomp, slap, stomp, slap. When ripping around, Silica resembles a lopsided ghost crab freshly dismembered by peasant kids. She had speculated on amputating her right limbs, but that would have meant hopping permanently clockwise, an idea which she considered too status quo. Silica pulled the furniture away from the walls of her apartment, creating a moat of matted carpet around the edges. With amazing feats of balance, she can hop from the front door to the kitchen at breakneck speeds. Eight seconds flat, and only the outside corners are still problematic. Silica Gel never eats out.
The art critic's mouth watered when he stumbled across the announcement for Silica Gel's opening at a local gallery. "Inward Journeys," it was called and he drove down there, pens loaded with venom. There were assorted libations. There were hors d'oeuvres. The theme song for The Waltons played softly in the background. Everyone wore expensive black clothes and talked about their frequent flyer miles. One guy tried to pull a fast one and inject some boring news about his Janus Fund portfolio. He was quickly clubbed to death and the frequent flyer miles conversation resumed.
"D-d-d-disgusting," thought the art critic, who spent the previous week standing before the mirror getting the "art critic" moves down. There was the sucking in of the cheeks to give his face that extra pinch. The aloof, pondering look in the eyes. The flick of the wrist when whipping out the notebook. Silica Gel also spent the previous week before a mirror elaborating the "artist look." The standard tight black dress that highlighted her curve. The grace of her hand slapping the wall when flipping around the gallery. The flamboyant flutter of the eyes when confronting a potential buyer. The hair twist around the pinky when approached by a critic.
When the gallery closed, the art critic pulled his car onto the sidewalk so Silica Gel could make it from the vestibule to the passenger seat with one easy hop. A true gentleman. The following Friday, she read the review twice. It was a marvelous rave. Full pager. Cubby the Bear never gave Silica Gel any problems, after all. She aced that test without sharpening a single pencil.
Ben Corbett Copyright 2002