Thin Legs and Long Neck.
On The Decks A Vinyl Spins.
Dropping Some Sick Beats.
Haiku 1 – “The Stork” by Art Artz
The Cold Tarmac Rubs His Skin
A Short Dizzy Life.
Haiku 2 – “Wheels” by Art Artz
The Cement Binds Them.
But One Brick Wished He was Free.
His Friends Disapproved.
Haiku 3 – “Bricks” by Art Artz
His Arthritis Creaks.
Writing Down His Memories.
Haiku 4 – “Age” by Art Artz
The cats gather round as he approaches. He has the air of someone important about him and a glow to his fur that draws their eyes, even at this distance.
They know him well, he had been one of them. Just a simple alley cat. But he had made the big time.
He was a house cat.
Here for his annual return to his roots, complete with cat food gifts and endless tales of the high life. Regaling the rapidly growing crowd with stories of free food, sleeping on the sofa and unconditional love.
He epitomizes their hopes and dreams. An unattainable feline deity.
His presence runs a fine line between adoration and resentment.
An idolised celebrity.
And his fall from grace was all the more dramatic for it.
“Please no” the pencil murmurs as the sharpener rapidly approaches. “I’m small as it is…”
A nearby pencil case cackles cruelly at the pencil as it’s cries fall on deaf ears.
Oh how he wished to be a sharpie… those guys were so cool, with their ever lasting ink. His work could be brushed away with a simple rubber.
“it’s what’s inside that counts” His mother had always said, completely unaware of the irony. His grandfather had been Shakespeare’s pencil. He was just downright average. He just didn’t have the creativity of the rest of his family.
The sharpener slowly and cruelly shaved away another chunk of wood reducing his length ever more.
Forever under appreciated…
Painting by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot
I hand the loveable nitwit another wad of cash in return for his ego soothing but clearly false flattery.
“Please Mr Art, tell me, how you achieve such perfection” says the small child
Another 5 pounds well spent.
It starts with a blank canvas.
A work surface on to which my creative juices can spill, much like when you accidently put the straw all the way through the capri-sun packet.
And then comes the idea, represented here as a thought bubble. This originates spontaneously. Inspiration can come from anywhere. Sometimes the inspiration can be the idea itself, this is known as the ‘idea of an idea’ paradox and puts the artist into a beautiful but inescapable artistic hole. It is thought that Van Gogh cut off his own ear just to escape the loop.
I achieved the loop in this particular piece I call “Woman in a Parka coat” or “Fur Hood”. You can choose.
I turn to face the boy again, expecting awe and wonderment
“Well there it is my beggar companion. Perfection. Here is some more cash for your trouble”
But alas he has gone.
And so has my wallet…