Your mother has told me so much about your likes and dislikes when it comes to movement in a room, and fabrics, how you absolutely cannot tolerate chintz. I feel as though I know you; I feel the very same about chintz. Also, chiffon has no place in a boy’s room. May I ask you a few questions?
I can already see that you have more gumption and style than your mother: you have chosen to costume yourself artistically, in a spitting cobra shirt, with khakis. Your mother, bless her simple soul, is more prone to sweats. Yikes. But the choice to add that homemade Spiderman cape simply makes your look. It is just a red towel…to littler minds than ours.
That red towel has so much drama, the way you cleverly swish it over your shoulder, and jump from the couch, and from the couch onto the other couch, and back and forth -- you’re like a blur. Like a late Van Gogh. I must put my couture frameless Titanium alloy distance glasses on, because now you have run into another area of the room and are hiding in a tent of luscious batik fabric and I can’t see you.
Did you booby-trap the door with figurines so neither I, nor your mother can open it? You did! Andy Warhol did the same to his mother, and to me, when I was a young, ingenue. Then, it was annoying. Now, artistic values have undergone a shift, and it is clever. Throw a mini dump truck at my head! I beg you!
Post post post structuralist, is what I told your mother about the faux-naïf sketches you dashed off on the bathroom wall in your characteristic medium, red-orange crayon. I can see that your art is both pop and obstructionist/defiant. Am I right? Have I placed you in the correct school? You are sometimes also Impressionist; in particular I’m talking about what everyone is calling your “blue period” finger paintings.
Do you not give interviews? Oh, but I can hear you through the door. Isn’t that you singing over and over again loud and off-key “Do You Know The Muffin Man” -- and your mother tells me that you are sometimes naked? This is worth pitching to MoMa. You could do an installation! Your mother says you frequently do installation pieces, but she erroneously calls them tantrums, being not of the art world.
Do you have a title in mind? I will slip my calling card of heavy card stock, with my number on it, under your door.
Fantastic! You have written me back. One of your first written communications! I am honored; your mother said you are still learning your letters! I will forever keep this little mangled piece of paper that it also appears you have spit on and defaced, with none other than your infant terrible spit. On it you have written: ANUS. To me you have written ANUS!
What a commentary! What a savant! I could not be more thrilled! One day, in eight to ten years, this will be worth millions so call the Guggenheim. Call Bilbao. Call the dealers. Call the auction houses. Call les grandparents. Yes! Yes! Your son, he is an artist.