I don’t like seeing The Persistence of Memory on your wall or desk calendars. From far away the warped face with the soft clock on its cheek looks like a decapitated horse with a saddle on it to me, and the reddish pocket watch reminds me of an old fashioned hot water bottle.
It’s the sort of painting which makes me upset that I didn’t initially see what was painted, and then insulted that my idea wasn’t painted first.
Then YOU come along, pulling into the parking lot of Poise and Class by walking out of Office Depot with a desk calendar which has this painting. Not because you like Dali or surrealism, in particular, but simply because you have a vague recollection of seeing a photo or reproduction of this image everywhere and know that if something is everywhere, it must be good.
Your pixilated paper is your Starbucks coffee and your Stephanie Meyer books and your tribal tattoo.
There on the wall, next to the Escher print, you hang your calendar. Whether you know about the sodomy paintings is any bored person’s guess, and just to spite you, I’ll never mention it. You made this personal when you bought into the commercialization of an idea which wasn’t actually my idea first.
Fuck your art.
