I consolidated the stories about Fred.


...long live, Hill Blocks View. I miss writing. But the thought of one more round of "welcome backs", or obsessing over stats, or thinking of the clever response to a comment, or the obligation to read everyone else's blog... not so much. So I'll try and write. No pressure. If you feel the need to respond, you can email me. I like email. flipaul@yahoo.com

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Velvet Painter.

I think the key to making money, is to be creative. And, I have always been creative. When I was a baby, I had a pair of Jimi Hendrix silk screened diapers. My finger paintings were more creative and avant garde than the other kindergartners. During High School, my graffiti had an aspect of Keith Haring that none of the other kids could pull off. And then one day I glimpsed an art form, that was sent from art heaven, itself. I glimpsed a magnificent picture of a virile Elvis, brought to rapturous glory against the backdrop of velvet midnight.

   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.
Not a real Kinkade.
   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.

   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.