I Know People Who Buy Art
I know people who buy art
because it matches her couch
and the lamp next to the couch,
and maybe picks up an accent color from the rug
under the lowslung coffee table
and maybe picks up an accent color from the rug
under the lowslung coffee table
I know people who buy art
because he enjoys
the bidding
the competition
the win
the conquest
taking the small Kandinsky
authenticated, insured, cataloged
the large Calder
authenticated, insured, cataloged
and entomb them in his museum/house
full of art
empty of people
except for the cleaning staff
and the friend
who waters his tomato plants during a heatwave, while he is in Africa photographing giraffes
I know people who buy art
because a blank wall is a crime that must be solved
by a Nagel print
lithograph, mass-produced
by a Thomas Kincade
painting, mass-produced
and occupies the space
faded, overlooked
faded, overlooked
a permanent ghostly reminder
of the single visit to Prints Plus in the mall
I know people who buy art
because it is a sensual pleasure
a feeling evoked
a truth
a private longing
a connection
a provocation
a raising of the small hairs at the back of the neck
held in two dimensions with color, shape, line, texture
I know people who buy art
as a vindictive warning,
massive, commissioned,
a simple message, fuck the neighbors
a billboard canvas of rage over complaints of loud music
I know people who don’t buy art
because they make their own
surrounded by their creations
a proud echo chamber
for each season and holiday
celebrating things they made
and photographs of people they made
I know people who buy art
and watch you look,
a window
snapshot
manuscript
instruction manual
on who they are
and wonder, do you see?
I Still Use Brushes, 1969
MoMA NY