I was dumfounded in it's simple brilliance. I was inspired as an artist, like I had never been inspired. Not even during the great leather jacket period of '97. I immediately went to the local art supply store to buy up their stock of velvet, so I could commence with my art making. They haughtily informed me that they didn't sell velvet, and that if I wished to purchase velvet I should try a craft store, right next to the crocheting. They said it with such obvious disdain that I wanted to stab them in the face with their precious inking nibs. Instead I told them that Thomas Kinkade is a more successful artist than they will ever be, and left. Their heart rending howls let me know the truth of my statement had crushed their tiny pretentious spirits.
I went to a fabric store and discovered roll upon roll of the dark feathery fabric of the gods. I was euphoric. I couldn't believe how amazing it felt against my skin. I would have rubbed against it forever but the security guard and his can of mace convinced me to curtail my indulgence until I was alone. I bought as much velvet as my 1988 Dodge Omni would hold, and rushed home. I unrolled my canvas and pulled out my paints. What should I start with? Elvis seemed liked a perfect starting point.
|Not a real Kinkade.|
My first painting complete, I was was drunk with the creative spirit. And grain alcohol. And I couldn't wait to create more. I made a whole series with clowns. And then I created several of truckers. And then some more Elvis's. And then I got into tasteful nudes for awhile. I created a unicorn whose mane blended into a girl. I created some religious icons. I had so many, that I ran out of walls to hang them on. It was time to sell some of them.
I gathered up several of my paintings and went to the local art gallery to see if I could show and sell some of masterpieces. They stuck their noses in the air, and said they didn't show kitsch art. They rudely suggested I try the side of the road. I repeated the Kinkade comment as I left and got similar results. I went to the flea market and set up shop. I was swarmed with customers, but they were only willing to buy my paintings for a fraction of their real worth. I couldn't even sell my paintings for what they cost to make. Another dead end for my career search.