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I don’t want art to ask any questions, unless it is “what would you like for dinner?” I want art to be predictable, like a romantic comedy that leaves you crying on the couch even though you knew they would end up together. I’d like it to sit in my lap and purr. Art should be like a mailbox – filled with ads, scams, bills, and the occasional birthday card. I don’t want art to teach me anything, unless it is how to make compost or how to poach an egg. I want art to be happy with what it has. I don’t want it to try to get ahead, but to linger behind, gathering the cocktail glasses after the party while the shadow of conversation fades into the night sky. I want art to be normal.
Art ought to be gossip magazines in the waiting room. It should be a doily on your grandmother’s dresser. Art ought to be a cup holder in your car or the Jolly Rancher wrappers in the crevices of the backseat. Or maybe art could be an armrest or a bath mat. It should be red paint peeling from a barn that is slumping in the snow. Art should be the new neighbor waving to you from their driveway.
I think art should quit being art, should change its name, and go into the witness protection program. You should never have to know its crimes, its dirty deeds, or its sordid past. Art should be an unmade bed that sometimes gets fresh sheets when you’re having guests.
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