It pains me to write this letter. Certainly, until this Wednesday, I had no intention of doing so, but developments have forced my hand. A hand once reserved for painting, it now writes in protest.
Witness the image that I have reproduced below.
You would be right. At least, that is what I believe it to be. However, if you had been at the local church this Wednesday night, you would have seen it labeled as... art. A piece of wood positioned on the wall... art.
Yes, that's right - a simple piece of wood. Our yearly exhibition of art in the name of Maine, even the Northeast, has been pushed past respectable boundaries and threatens to teeter off the edge of an endless abyss (the walls of which probably papered with emoticons). While my paintings of cherubs and nature and love go unremarked upon (save by our beloved town enchantress Addie Marcus - a tip of my hat to you, my lady), examples of ambitionless, passionless, artless excrement are singled out for excellence. To quote one guest, it "pushes the boundaries of my mind." Indeed. The fact that this guest was most likely thinking under the influence of psychedelics is something I will not deign to mention.
And its title - "wood?" - so 'artsy' with its lowercase, so evocative with its question mark - makes me want to puke.
I will not even mention the other exhibits that pushed the boundaries of my mind, but they include collages (collages!) of leaves and "installations" made out of hair that is not, strictly speaking, on a person's head.
Where are we going, I ask you? The heat wave displaced us from our usual fairgrounds, and apparently, displaced all sense as well.
For those of you who do love the artful expression of the soul, I will be holding a private showing at my dear friend's, Timothy Greenlaw's, ice cream and antiques shop. A kiddie-sized cup of an ice cream of your choosing will be available for free. All are welcome.
Sincerely,
Bert Pineau
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