Art attack
There is a graffiti artist hiding somewhere in my home, quite like Banksy, the England based anonymous graffiti artist who draws subversive and satirical street art. This particular artist in our discussions enjoys drawing with lead pencils or sometimes even catastrophically with sketch pens on my creamy walls. Interrogations about said artist's identity result in vehement denial and finger pointing.
It's one of the many mysteries of the Universe.
For instance if the Universe expanded after the big bang, what did it expand into? Was there space around the big bang? What made it bang? If black holes exist, how do we push people we don't like into them?
I have, however, resolved to employ my brain power in solving the mystery of this artist rather than engage in pointless pontificatations over the excellent usage of black holes.
In Math class we learnt that a Venn diagram contained a universal set and various sub sets. If I were to assume the universal set contained the life partner, myself and our two kids, then I could easily use the Venn diagram to help find the possible culprit. I draw one circle to represent one set which consists of individuals who don't care about the cost of repainting the wall, so that set contains the prodigal son and his faithful follower, his younger sister. The other set consists of individuals with opportunity because of their presence at home for longer periods of time. That set includes yours truly and the youngest kid in the house. She intersects both the sets and voila we find the culprit.
Sustained questioning finally reveals the truth. She admits to a couple of the artistic creations but denies the ones she feels do not measure up to her worth as an artist. I understand now, that ego may be the reason many artists leave certain pieces of work unsigned. Suppose you set out to draw the Eiffel tower but it looked like a TV tower, would you admit you drew it? Admittedly the Eiffel tower too looks like a monstrosity, but that is a topic for a whole other discussion. As it stands right now, the entire world admires it and pays several Euros to climb it, so I won't go about dissecting it's many flaws as a piece of artistic expression.
While digressing to the subject of climbing, I feel compelled to observe this weird obsession with climbing various bell towers attached to churches. I refuse to climb the five flights of stairs to my home. If the elevator near my wing is broken down and I have to walk a few feet away to the lift in the next wing, I moan about the poor facilities we have to put up with. But go to Florence, Venice, or anywhere in the world and we will happily pay several Euros to climb some campanile.
This obsession to climb all things monumental and tall is a little strange, I have to say. I have climbed mountains in rains with leeches attacking me every step of the way, felt joyous delight at eating instant noodles over a campfire, agonized over the howling wind while shivering in my sleeping bag in a tent that would keep blowing off. Still if someone were to say, "Want to come for a trek?" I'm ever ready and willing. However, if the spouse requests me to get the car keys inadvertently forgotten upstairs on the bedside table, I'll moan and groan about the aching knee joints and express in colourful language, my distress at scaling those miserable heights.
Discussion about the staircase in my nest brings me back to the artist on the prowl in our house. Her endeavours to add substance to our admittedly white washed existence has now made our house look like those flyovers in town, with posters of movies or political figures partially defaced or scrubbed out.
Complaints about her decorations on our walls to my mother elicited an indulgent "She is exploring her creativity." I remember her reaction when I similarly complained about the older one, then aged about two, who had started throwing out kitchen utensils whenever he spotted an open window or balcony door. "He's practising his motor skills, clasping and unclasping objects," I realized I wasn't going to get a sympathetic ear here.
It's interesting, how she never took that line when I was breaking the glass doors of the house. Didn't she get it that I was testing the compressive strength of glass as part of my science project? My guess is she was too busy stressing over the financial implications to appreciate my scientific endeavours.
The indulgent father of my artistic child chose, as well, to foster her creativity rather than calculate the financial losses rapidly accumulating due to her talent. He asked me to to put off repainting the house to give his Picasso more time and cement canvasses to fan her artistry. Here, I worried whether the cubism would morph into impressionism, and maybe fauvism and then various other 'isms' without any monetary benefit; while there, he declared liberally "Let her grow out of the graffiti phase, we will paint after that."
Tired of imagining the snide remarks, that guests passed about our graffitied home, I decided to 'fix it' as advised by 'Cold Play'.
In my latest avatar as a painter, I wore my oldest apparel and tied a scarf around my head and a handkerchief to cover my nose and mouth as I scrubbed the walls with sandpaper. An Amazon delivery came a short while later. I opened the door and suddenly without warning, the delivery boy dropped the parcel and ran away screaming like he was being chased by a particularly ferocious bumble bee with conjunctivitis. I couldn't understand the reaction but assumed he had a bad attack of peristaltic movement of the bowels. I happily put my parcel away and resumed my labours
A short while and many sandpapered layers later, the cops came to my door! They were investigating me, they said. They got a complaint from the delivery people about a possible militant in mufti and when they questioned my husband, the registered owner of the house, he candidly admitted that I terrorized him.
Apparently that's all it takes!
It's one of the many mysteries of the Universe.
For instance if the Universe expanded after the big bang, what did it expand into? Was there space around the big bang? What made it bang? If black holes exist, how do we push people we don't like into them?
I have, however, resolved to employ my brain power in solving the mystery of this artist rather than engage in pointless pontificatations over the excellent usage of black holes.
In Math class we learnt that a Venn diagram contained a universal set and various sub sets. If I were to assume the universal set contained the life partner, myself and our two kids, then I could easily use the Venn diagram to help find the possible culprit. I draw one circle to represent one set which consists of individuals who don't care about the cost of repainting the wall, so that set contains the prodigal son and his faithful follower, his younger sister. The other set consists of individuals with opportunity because of their presence at home for longer periods of time. That set includes yours truly and the youngest kid in the house. She intersects both the sets and voila we find the culprit.
Sustained questioning finally reveals the truth. She admits to a couple of the artistic creations but denies the ones she feels do not measure up to her worth as an artist. I understand now, that ego may be the reason many artists leave certain pieces of work unsigned. Suppose you set out to draw the Eiffel tower but it looked like a TV tower, would you admit you drew it? Admittedly the Eiffel tower too looks like a monstrosity, but that is a topic for a whole other discussion. As it stands right now, the entire world admires it and pays several Euros to climb it, so I won't go about dissecting it's many flaws as a piece of artistic expression.
While digressing to the subject of climbing, I feel compelled to observe this weird obsession with climbing various bell towers attached to churches. I refuse to climb the five flights of stairs to my home. If the elevator near my wing is broken down and I have to walk a few feet away to the lift in the next wing, I moan about the poor facilities we have to put up with. But go to Florence, Venice, or anywhere in the world and we will happily pay several Euros to climb some campanile.
This obsession to climb all things monumental and tall is a little strange, I have to say. I have climbed mountains in rains with leeches attacking me every step of the way, felt joyous delight at eating instant noodles over a campfire, agonized over the howling wind while shivering in my sleeping bag in a tent that would keep blowing off. Still if someone were to say, "Want to come for a trek?" I'm ever ready and willing. However, if the spouse requests me to get the car keys inadvertently forgotten upstairs on the bedside table, I'll moan and groan about the aching knee joints and express in colourful language, my distress at scaling those miserable heights.
Discussion about the staircase in my nest brings me back to the artist on the prowl in our house. Her endeavours to add substance to our admittedly white washed existence has now made our house look like those flyovers in town, with posters of movies or political figures partially defaced or scrubbed out.
Complaints about her decorations on our walls to my mother elicited an indulgent "She is exploring her creativity." I remember her reaction when I similarly complained about the older one, then aged about two, who had started throwing out kitchen utensils whenever he spotted an open window or balcony door. "He's practising his motor skills, clasping and unclasping objects," I realized I wasn't going to get a sympathetic ear here.
It's interesting, how she never took that line when I was breaking the glass doors of the house. Didn't she get it that I was testing the compressive strength of glass as part of my science project? My guess is she was too busy stressing over the financial implications to appreciate my scientific endeavours.
The indulgent father of my artistic child chose, as well, to foster her creativity rather than calculate the financial losses rapidly accumulating due to her talent. He asked me to to put off repainting the house to give his Picasso more time and cement canvasses to fan her artistry. Here, I worried whether the cubism would morph into impressionism, and maybe fauvism and then various other 'isms' without any monetary benefit; while there, he declared liberally "Let her grow out of the graffiti phase, we will paint after that."
Tired of imagining the snide remarks, that guests passed about our graffitied home, I decided to 'fix it' as advised by 'Cold Play'.
In my latest avatar as a painter, I wore my oldest apparel and tied a scarf around my head and a handkerchief to cover my nose and mouth as I scrubbed the walls with sandpaper. An Amazon delivery came a short while later. I opened the door and suddenly without warning, the delivery boy dropped the parcel and ran away screaming like he was being chased by a particularly ferocious bumble bee with conjunctivitis. I couldn't understand the reaction but assumed he had a bad attack of peristaltic movement of the bowels. I happily put my parcel away and resumed my labours
A short while and many sandpapered layers later, the cops came to my door! They were investigating me, they said. They got a complaint from the delivery people about a possible militant in mufti and when they questioned my husband, the registered owner of the house, he candidly admitted that I terrorized him.
Apparently that's all it takes!
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