So he started lecturing me on Close. I was all, "Excuse me? You think you're so smart, don't you? Well, let me tell you something. I've met Chuck Close." Shook his hand, in fact. He's all right, I'd say, as far as people go. As an artist, he's incredible and inspiring and shockingly... well, whatever, you know what I'm gonna say, because that's what I always say when I talk about art, and I know my art, even if I'm young. It doesn't take some spinster to know some great stuff when I see it, right? So I know my Close when you ask me about my Close. ...When not the the mosaic style, his portraits are so overwhelmingly detailed that half the time it takes me moments of staring to find parts of the painting that prove that it's not photography.
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She was sitting there reading Freud. Most of the time I don't mind smart people, but this was kind of strange, a twelve-year-old reading Freud and not looking the slightest bit mystified. There was another book under her arm, but she would not let me see it. It must have been something like Iris Murdoch, or maybe even Angela Carter, but you can never be sure with these types of people. The thing is you really can't read Angela Carter without reading Shakespeare. Well, actually, you can. It just takes some of the fun out of it when you don't.
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I have to get this out of me. I have to just eject it from my system so that I don't go crazy and pull out my hair. The truth is...
The truth is Jackson Pollock sucks. Okay, well, he doesn't suck, but he's not all that he's famous and cracked up to be. I can throw paint at a canvas, too. I can make hundreds of layers of colorful splashes. Oh yeah, you're all edgy and original, you're respectable, Sir Jackson Pollock. Give me a break! I'm sorry, but anybody could do that. Sure, it's cool-looking. But it's not a gift. There's only so many pictures of choatic dribbles that I would like to look at in an art gallery.
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