Over the years I’ve thought of no less than 5,000 scathingly witty comebacks that did not spring to mind that moment. According to the ideals touted by the museum elite artists are supposed to be pure and only paint from some higher inspiration akin to a burning bush, but I don’t subscribe. Practice is practice and I am self-taught. As I was learning the craft the subjective irrelevance of the subject, when I needed money, didn’t faze me in the least. The theory that it takes 10,000 hours to be good at something is probably true. In the long run it served me better to move a paint brush than stand in a museum with white gloves on kissing curatorial ass. Picasso would roll over if he knew I produced paintings in his style that matched the chair rail in a restaurant.
I took her point seriously though. Ever since she asked that scathing question I have preserved the provenance of my true artistic work with one simple technique. My signature is on the paintings that are from my heart. But when I painted something purely for the almighty dollar, I signed her name on it.