There is nothing more irksome to me than to listen to people babble on about how Art is the visual expression of an inner emotion. Not only do I think this obscures and devalues the physical and mental labor of the artist but more importantly, it is a backwards and limiting way of approaching Art. Let me explain.

It is as if we were to describe a soccer match by only being allowed to hear the cries and whistles of the crowd. As if the game on the field is only intended to elicit some response from the fans. Of course this does happen but is it not the point of the game. You could make it the point but then we would not be talking about soccer because a circus would do just as well. But I suppose that when people emphasize the correlation between Art and emotion they are more often doing so not by way of description but by way of justification. Not, the fans cheered to watch the beautiful game but I cheered because my son scored the goal.

Justifying Art by means of emotions may seem philosophically expedient but it is symptomatic of a jaded and unimaginative mind. The point is not that Art should exist but that it exists at all. In a world where many of our species still struggle just to survive we have paintings to hang on our walls. It is this juxtaposition that tells of the complexity of human life and our ability to both be and recognize beautiful. Art, like all complex human behavior, is both the cause and condition of our species and you will get no closer to its essence by looking for a root cause. It is as absurd as studying the roundness of the soccer ball to explain the million dollar transfer fee of a star player. I am reminded of the words spoken by Elliot Ness in the movie “Untouchables”. “The surprise is half the battle. Many things are half the battle, losing is half the battle. Let’s think about what’s the whole battle.”

One of the most commonly asked questions at art festivals is, “How long does it take you to make a piece?” One artist responded, “A lifetime.” Think about it.

With hands on my hips I stared up at the night sky, watching small white clouds race towards the ocean. Far above the stars twinkled. “Hmmm.” I said aloud. High up on the trees the palm fronds noisily rearranged themselves with every gust of wind. A Porta Potty door blew open and closed with a loud bang. “Hmmm.” I said again and took off my rain jacket. Mizner Park is a nondescript avenue in Boca Raton, Florida that serves as both a retail strip for stores like Banana Republic, the Sunglasses Hut and Starbucks and, as far as I could tell, the entire cultural repository of the region contained in an art museum and an outdoor theater. At one end of the strip stood a large four sided tower emblazoned with famous quotations. In the bright light of the street lamps I could read, “Music is well said to be the speech of angels… it brings us nearer to the infinite.” What exactly Carlyle meant by this I am not sure but It does beg the question, “What do angels do when they want to sing?” Just then a garbage can toppled over and rolled noisily down the street. Pieces of paper and empty Starbucks cups scattered in all directions. “Hmmm.” I said again and felt profoundly pessimistic. “Well, I haven’t driven 16 hours for nothing.” I thought and began to unpack the car.

In line at Starbucks, I tried not to overhear the conversations about dogs, exercise routines and Super Bowl picks. As I ordered a large hot chocolate, I asked the young man behind the counter if the art festival helped or hurt business. “Didn’t know there was one.” He replied with a genuine look of surprise. I turned and looked out at the street. It was packed full of white vans, tents and art. “Hard to miss.” I said, turning back to look at him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He said and directed me to where I could pick up my hot chocolate. “Hmmm.” I said and knew this was not going to be a good show. The day began slowly with a few knots of retirees gazing at the art from sunny spots near park benches. The wind was still blowing hard and even though the temperature was in the 60s they looked cold and miserable. The painter in the booth next to me shook his head despairingly and said, “It’s too cold for old people.” He looked to be in his 60s. “I guess it’s all relative.” I said, not trying to hide my meaning. As the day wore on the crowds gradually thickened but the demographic never changed. There were a lot of matching sweat suits in bright colors and khaki pants and black socks with white sneakers. I talked to one elderly gentleman for 10 minutes during which one of his nostrils dripped nonstop. I had to position myself up wind so as to avoid the flying mucus. Later I wasted a half hour arguing with an aging socialite over why I didn’t sign the front of my artwork. She was dissatisfied with my aesthetic responses. “But nobody will know who made it.” She argued, missing my point entirely. I noticed the large letters spelling out “Versace” on the side of her sunglasses and concluded that the conversation was probably futile. One overly tan and wrinkled man, attired in running shorts and a sweatshirt, decided to park himself in a sunny spot directly in front of my booth and proceeded to treat my neighbor and me to an unwanted peep show every time the wind blew up his shorts. This all would have been comical if I were selling art but since the crowds seemed more interested in staying warm and not falling down, I gradually became more and more annoyed. The last straw came when three short haired ladies, sporting the latest in topiary inspired hairstyles, collectively tapped on my art with their long fake fingernails in an attempt to settle an argument about what it was made of. I was in the process of mustering all of my sardonic wit for a thinly veiled reproach, when a strong gust of wind rushed through the festival causing tents to shake and hats to fly off. There was a loud crashing sound from around the corner and I ran out of my booth just in time to see an artist’s tent takeoff into a palm tree. It stayed pinned against the tree, about 8 feet off the ground, with its legs sticking out perpendicular from the trunk. One elderly festival goer jumped nobly but wildly for one of the lower legs and since he was probably 80 his attempts fell comically short. In fact, I don’t believe his feet ever left the ground. Eventually younger men managed to retrieve the tent and I turned back to my booth only to discover that the three old women were gone, perhaps blown away to some other part of the festival.

The mood among the artists at tear down was somewhere between riotous and despair. There were rumors of two artists from Colorado who didn’t even have enough money to make it home. My neighbor, who turned out to be something of a polyglot, could be heard exclaiming, “C’est des conneries!” over and over again as he packed up his art. I don’t know much French but his demeanor left little doubt as to the gist of the phrase. I was not immune from the dissatisfaction over the show and when I started sneezing and my nose began to run, I offered my own English equivalent of, “C’est des conneries!” I drove an hour north to find a cheap hotel room and settled on a Holiday Inn at Port St. Lucie. The room was small but the bedding had been recently updated so I decided it was worth the $54. Without even undressing I collapsed onto the bed and was asleep in minutes. The next morning I awoke with a full-blown cold. I can’t say for sure that the old man with the drippy nose was the cause of all my pain but I was prepared to give sworn testimony to that effect. After a pee and a long hot shower, I stood in front of the sink in the broom closet sized bathroom wondering how things could get worse. I sighed and reached for my toothbrush, managing to knock my clean socks, underwear and T-shirt into the unflushed toilet. “Hmmm.” I said and watched the clothes sink into the yellow water. I tweezered them out with two pens and left them in a pile on the bathroom floor. I didn’t think the $1.50 in quarters I left on the nightstand would be seen as anything but a cruel joke but it was all I had. At the front desk, the clerk smiled and wished me a good day. I stopped and for a brief second thought about mentioning the funny story about the pile of urine soaked clothes on the bathroom floor but then I sneezed violently and instead took my leave with a hand strategically placed over my nose.

To say that I don’t like pets is a little misleading. When I was a youngster I had all kinds of pets, although mostly of the toad and lizard variety. Perhaps because it is more difficult to develop an emotional bond with amphibians and reptiles, I always looked on my relationships with my pets as akin to a benevolent jailer to his prisoners. I would occasionally poke or prod them but generally my pets were well fed and sometimes even gained their freedom, mostly due to me forgetting to put the top back on the aquarium. But eventually I grew tired of lording it over bumpy skinned and scaly creatures and found better uses for my time, mainly trying to convince fair skinned and doe eyed creatures to go out with me. I would still occasionally go into the woods and admire the toads and lizards and other creatures but there was no lingering connection. Outdoors they were in their element and didn’t need me to try and force feed them raw hamburger. Sometimes I would get a passing glance from a wild creature but it had all the emotional depth of two Englishmen meeting. “Good morning to you sir.” Said I to the toad. Says the toad, “If it doesn‘t rain. Well, I must be off.” Mr. Toad turns and hops away.

I stared perplexingly at what appeared to be a child stroller modified to carry a very tiny dog. I have come to expect all kinds of oddities and abnormalities at art shows. Between the artists and the patrons we manage some kind of circus. But this had me stumped. “Why?” I thought. I mean I understood the concept of a tiny dog stroller but why? Why would you go through all the trouble to perfect a brand of eugenics, and I think it’s fair to use this term as long as people refer to dogs as members of their family, just so you can have a creature with legs which are so incredibly short it would necessitate you buying a specially made stroller just so you could push it about? I looked around for help and seeing a fellow artist friend nearby motioned for him to come over. “What’s wrong?” He said, seeing my puzzled look. “That.” I said, pointing to the tiny dog in the stroller. “Oh, that. We stone people like that back in Ecuador.” He smiled and walked away. Now I am quite sure he was joking, at least about the stoning part but just to be safe I wouldn’t bring your pet strollers to Ecuador.

I stopped by to see an old friend yesterday and as I opened her back door I was greeted by a very enthusiastic brindle pitbull. Since he seemed friendly enthusiastic and not tear off your leg enthusiastic and because, like I said, I don’t not like pets, I gave him a few pats on the back and pushed my way in. “He’s a real sweetheart isn’t he?” She smiled benevolently as his tail wagged violently. “He looks nervous.” I commented, thinking he was overdoing the tail wagging. “I just found him yesterday. The three of them were running along the railroad tracks just down the street.” She showed me a cell phone picture of three dogs; the brindle pitbull, some sort of mutt and a little Yorkie. “The Yorkie was trying to hump the pit bull.” She added, perhaps explaining his nervousness. “I already dropped the other two at the pound but I think I’ll keep this one if I can’t find the owner.” “I thought you already had a dog?” I questioned. “Yeah, but he’s blind and deaf.” “Come again?” I said, not sure I had heard her right. “You didn’t know? Come see him.” She led me into the front room and on a large pillow sat a small ball of black curly fur. She picked up the little creature and I saw four little legs unfold as she stroked its back. “Really all he can do is sit on the pillow and it would be nice to have a real dog that can do real dog things.” She put the creature back on the pillow where it turned a few circles before collapsing back into a ball . “Monica, what are you doing with a blind and deaf dog?” “Well I found him and I knew that if I dropped him at the pound they would just euthanize him because after all he is blind and deaf. I just couldn’t do that.” For a brief second I thought about saying something about misplaced emotions but then I remembered that Monica is an ER nurse and does volunteer work in South Africa. I used to poke toads and lizards. “Okay but I still don’t approve of doggie strollers.” “What?” She looked at me perplexed. “Never mind.” I said and stooped to pet the brindle pitbull.