My Friend Knuckles on Being A Working Artist

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Or...AN EMAIL THE GOOD REVEREND DOES NOT NEED TO BE READING AT 5:30 AM

Posted verbatim, with no editing:

"The worst part of this whole trip is kissing stinking booosh-wah ASS and haggling with people who have so much money they don't know what to do with it but they still have the need to haggle over a lousy $300.00 piece that has $50.00 of brain cancer causing caustic paint on a $20.00 canvas with a $70.00 fucking picture frame around the whole mess and the crazy-bitch gallery owner acts like you're a fucking charity case because she only takes a 70% commision instead of her usual 80% and shows up at the opening with a poorly adjusted dose of Prozac in her fucking head that she proceeds to drink on top of and then she takes off her jacket and she's wearing a fuckin' see-through blouse because she's going into heat and then she asks you to pop into the bathroom with her and you go because you think she might have some cocaine or a tab or something that she is going to give you but she proceeds to pose up against the sink like some kind of fashion model 1/10th of her age with her distended nipples poking off of her saggy titties at your face like now you're supposed to suck on 'em or feel her up or something meanwhile you're afraid she's gonna puke all over the fucking onion dip or your paintings or on you from all the cheap California wine she so generously provided and then she tries to bill you for advertising and promotional costs and the rich bitch from Oro Valley or the foot hills or Vail or some fucking place like that writes a bad check on her last husband's now-defunct bank account and she's already made off with the painting and now you're screwed because nipple-freak is too much of a fuck-up to straighten it out but then the bitch from the estate invites you to her tudor mansion to pick up the payment in cash this time cause you know she's a deadbeat during a party for which you are expected to provide amusement and "color" to the bridge club, tea party, country club crowd but you're wearing your usual clothes that make you look homeless compared to the fucking Nordstrom-wearing, BMW-driving cunts and their drunken fucking self-medicated fat plastic surgeon or maybe some coked-up prosecutor husbands and then the other bitch wants you to spackle the holes in her fucking walls when you're done."

My response to follow, just as soon as I can think up something nasty enough.

[East Coast Hustle]

My only response is a complete lack of understanding as to why he didn't hatefuck her on the sink.

[Verbal Mike]

Posted verbatim, with no editing:

Did not!


No in all seriousness that's pretty depressing.

[Placid Dingo]

No more than one deserves for a pursuing a career in the arts.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

My only response is a complete lack of understanding as to why he didn't hatefuck her on the sink.

I have no answer for that...It's not as if he's squeamish.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

If he's got $140 in materials on the piece, and the gallery owner is taking 70%, he needs to price it no lower than $1000. Pricing high helps mitigate the snootiness.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

My only response is a complete lack of understanding as to why he didn't hatefuck her on the sink.

Probably because he'd NEVER be rid of her if he did that.

[Richter]

"Being an artistmeans starving for your art.  Free lunch exists, but it seldom comes labeled.  Enjoy your gallery owner, use plenty of sauce, because she sounds like a stringy bird with a chemicak aftertaste.

The resr are likely ruined with silicon, but should have enough scrap metal to make a rural thai family try to render them down for scrap in he communal wok."

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

No more than one deserves for a pursuing a career in the arts.

Um.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

My response:

Dear Knuckles,

With mounting horror, I read your email.  It has fucked up my day...In fact, it has destroyed my weekend, my summer, and very possibly my entire life.  Why would you write me with shit like that, given the problems that I am myself am having at work? 

A few things:  Being an ex-con doesn't automatically make you a great artist.  I've seen your stuff, of course, and it's good.  But there's a difference between being good and being succcessful, and you have chosen the WRONG city in which to produce good stuff.  No.  In Tucson, you need to either be GREAT, which you aren't - yet, at any rate - or you must be a gigantic pus-bag of mediocrity and hipster pretentions.  And charge enormous amounts.  Nobody wants to brag about buying cheap art.

Seriously, Knuckles...Who said all you have to do is the art?  You have to SELL it, and that means kissing the wrinkly old arses of gallery owners and Your Public.  It doesn't help that you're a hulking brute covered in prison tattoos with a bald head and a fu manchu mustache.  Grow a fucking top-knot, for fuck's sake, and learn to spout pseudo-Japanese homilies.  They LOVE that shit here.  And get a pair of those wooden sandals that look like Legos.

Also, drop the quality of the materials that you are using.  These swine will never be able to tell the difference.  They are the rich version of people that buy velvet Elvis paintings.  And they're YOUR audience.  Ho ho!  How's THAT grab you?

Speaking of grabbing, my long-time associate and good friend whom for the purposes of this letter we will call "Captain Chancre Sore" brought up the obvious question..."If she wanted you in the bathroom, why didn't you hate-fuck her on the sink"?  It's not as if you can be choosy, Knuckles...The only way you'll get anything better than that is if the woman dies and wills it to you.  Maybe.  And you can trust the Captain, Knuckles...He has spirochetes the size of garter snakes dropping out of every orifice, in public.

Lastly, your failure to do something awful at the party both disgusts me, and explains why you aren't doing as well as you could be doing.  These people want COLOR, dammit, and that means BEING A TOTAL JACKASS AT PARTIES, not just showing up looking like a hobo.

So stop all this fucking around.  Get SERIOUS about your art and about abusing your customer base, or go get a job at a call center, you fucking hydroencephalitic ape.

Up The Revoltion,
The Good Reverend Roger


Note to PD:  I am a dead man walking.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

No more than one deserves for a pursuing a career in the arts.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

My response:

Dear Knuckles,

With mounting horror, I read your email.  It has fucked up my day...In fact, it has destroyed my weekend, my summer, and very possibly my entire life.  Why would you write me with shit like that, given the problems that I am myself am having at work? 

A few things:  Being an ex-con doesn't automatically make you a great artist.  I've seen your stuff, of course, and it's good.  But there's a difference between being good and being succcessful, and you have chosen the WRONG city in which to produce good stuff.  No.  In Tucson, you need to either be GREAT, which you aren't - yet, at any rate - or you must be a gigantic pus-bag of mediocrity and hipster pretentions.  And charge enormous amounts.  Nobody wants to brag about buying cheap art.

Seriously, Knuckles...Who said all you have to do is the art?  You have to SELL it, and that means kissing the wrinkly old arses of gallery owners and Your Public.  It doesn't help that you're a hulking brute covered in prison tattoos with a bald head and a fu manchu mustache.  Grow a fucking top-knot, for fuck's sake, and learn to spout pseudo-Japanese homilies.  They LOVE that shit here.  And get a pair of those wooden sandals that look like Legos.

Also, drop the quality of the materials that you are using.  These swine will never be able to tell the difference.  They are the rich version of people that buy velvet Elvis paintings.  And they're YOUR audience.  Ho ho!  How's THAT grab you?

Speaking of grabbing, my long-time associate and good friend whom for the purposes of this letter we will call "Captain Chancre Sore" brought up the obvious question..."If she wanted you in the bathroom, why didn't you hate-fuck her on the sink"?  It's not as if you can be choosy, Knuckles...The only way you'll get anything better than that is if the woman dies and wills it to you.  Maybe.  And you can trust the Captain, Knuckles...He has spirochetes the size of garter snakes dropping out of every orifice, in public.

Lastly, your failure to do something awful at the party both disgusts me, and explains why you aren't doing as well as you could be doing.  These people want COLOR, dammit, and that means BEING A TOTAL JACKASS AT PARTIES, not just showing up looking like a hobo.

So stop all this fucking around.  Get SERIOUS about your art and about abusing your customer base, or go get a job at a call center, you fucking hydroencephalitic ape.

Up The Revoltion,
The Good Reverend Roger


Note to PD:  I am a dead man walking.

Beautiful.

[Placid Dingo]

No more than one deserves for a pursuing a career in the arts.

Um.

I like the arts and the people who work in them. I was just taking the piss of the general anti-arts culture. obviously didn't go down well. Sorry bout that.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

No more than one deserves for a pursuing a career in the arts.

Um.

I like the arts and the people who work in them. I was just taking the piss of the general anti-arts culture. obviously didn't go down well. Sorry bout that.

No worries.

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

My response:

Dear Knuckles,

With mounting horror, I read your email.  It has fucked up my day...In fact, it has destroyed my weekend, my summer, and very possibly my entire life.  Why would you write me with shit like that, given the problems that I am myself am having at work? 

A few things:  Being an ex-con doesn't automatically make you a great artist.  I've seen your stuff, of course, and it's good.  But there's a difference between being good and being succcessful, and you have chosen the WRONG city in which to produce good stuff.  No.  In Tucson, you need to either be GREAT, which you aren't - yet, at any rate - or you must be a gigantic pus-bag of mediocrity and hipster pretentions.  And charge enormous amounts.  Nobody wants to brag about buying cheap art.

Seriously, Knuckles...Who said all you have to do is the art?  You have to SELL it, and that means kissing the wrinkly old arses of gallery owners and Your Public.  It doesn't help that you're a hulking brute covered in prison tattoos with a bald head and a fu manchu mustache.  Grow a fucking top-knot, for fuck's sake, and learn to spout pseudo-Japanese homilies.  They LOVE that shit here.  And get a pair of those wooden sandals that look like Legos.

Also, drop the quality of the materials that you are using.  These swine will never be able to tell the difference.  They are the rich version of people that buy velvet Elvis paintings.  And they're YOUR audience.  Ho ho!  How's THAT grab you?

Speaking of grabbing, my long-time associate and good friend whom for the purposes of this letter we will call "Captain Chancre Sore" brought up the obvious question..."If she wanted you in the bathroom, why didn't you hate-fuck her on the sink"?  It's not as if you can be choosy, Knuckles...The only way you'll get anything better than that is if the woman dies and wills it to you.  Maybe.  And you can trust the Captain, Knuckles...He has spirochetes the size of garter snakes dropping out of every orifice, in public.

Lastly, your failure to do something awful at the party both disgusts me, and explains why you aren't doing as well as you could be doing.  These people want COLOR, dammit, and that means BEING A TOTAL JACKASS AT PARTIES, not just showing up looking like a hobo.

So stop all this fucking around.  Get SERIOUS about your art and about abusing your customer base, or go get a job at a call center, you fucking hydroencephalitic ape.

Up The Revoltion,
The Good Reverend Roger


Note to PD:  I am a dead man walking.

Beautiful.

I think he will take the advice.
TGRR: Making a difference.