I continued to make my rounds around the gallery, pacing in an 8X8 room filled with sculptures.
Will anyone notice if this donkey figurine is missing?
The case against the wall held three sculptures: a plastic pig with two welded faces, three ears and one snout stared back at me as if asking for release; a Dalmatian, a few skulls and a face resembling a lumberjack were donning knitted beanie-hats while staring off into space; a syringe sprung out of a lighter’s base resembling a tank’s high-caliber gun.
What’s more destructive: a heroin-filled syringe or a tank?
I moved onto the main gallery. People were canvassing the bar for free booze like vultures around a carcass. I wanted to join the fun but this painting with the fucking witch kept dragging me back. She seemed to be sucking the life out of a poor, helpless child, a child clinging desperately to her innocence: a cat.
“And so it is…”
I hadn’t heard Damien Rice in years. Takes me back to drinking tall cans with Manny while thinking it’s only a matter of time until I sputter off a sophomoric joke and he takes it for a reason to break beer bottles. That sort of adrenaline always made me queasy. Those were the days, friends.
Did that girl steal Marky Mark’s gloves, or is this the latest trend in appendage-wear?
Once a crowd gathered near the bar, the drawings were a complete nuisance. Why is there so much art here when all we want to do is drink? And then it hit me.
These works of Art are merely suggestions for a good time.
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