Subjectivity at it's finest....

A couple of weeks back I had a golden opportunity to accompany the loveables on a community service event.

(In other words, I was cluster-effed by the bitches ( see Urban Dictionary definition # 4-2 which says this about the word "bitches"... This word can be used as a term of endearment when inserted instead of someone's name) who normally work these Friday events.

They were out farting around on some kind of special weekend trip having all kinds of fun tearing down houses in the searing heat.)

The community service event was to be performed at what used to be the 3rd Police Precinct in Detroit.

The building was sold, bought, then rented by a group of artists.

They have a wonderful plan of making it a space for artists to hone and display their crafts.

No matter what the medium.

When we first arrived we were shown around the room we'd be cleaning. It was pretty well stocked with more than a really big, huge, and gigantic butt-load lot of old crap.

(STOCKED to da gills)

(So much so that one of the great minds behind this undertaking admitted to being Horders, Buried Alive material)

(not a joke by any means)

We were asked to pile the piles in new spots around the huge building.

Most of the salvaged "treasures" proved to be much too heavy, dusty, sharp, peculiar shaped, odd colored, moldy, broken, dead spider containing for me to handle on my own, so I mainly just supervised.

And talked to the couple of artists that were there working.

One of the artists worked in sculptures, the loveables and I oohed and ahhhed over his work.

One of the other artists described himself to be multi-diciplined.

He laughed when I told him that I was an art teacher's worst nightmare... not an ounce of talent in any art form.

"I pretty much do all my charcoals, colored pencil, water-color and acrylics, etc using different sized sticks to make up the people".

(That was a stretch to describe the crude markings as "people")

I also told him I've been known to turn out an acceptable, one deminsional flower, namely a tulip (because that is the only flower I  know how to depict) every now and then.

(That was a stretch too)

The artist told me that he also sometimes draws people using sticks.

He asked if I'd like a piece of his artwork.

He rooted around the place for a few minutes and came back with a colored pencil drawing done on what looked like a torn off chunk of a paper bag.

He had it numbered and everything.

#33

out of 100.

I was stoked, I'd not even so much as ever talked to someone who worked as a real live artist, let alone received an original, numbered piece.

He even signed it too.

I wasn't sure if I should curtsey or genuflect or offer him a *Jackson when he presented me with it.

I excitedly told my lovable thugs about what I'd been given and they all asked to see it.

With the artist proudly watching, I held it out in my hand.

One of the loveables picked it up, scrutinized it for a second or two, chuckled, loud and long, then remarked.... "geeze, is this guy just starting out, or what?"

I went and dove, head first, into the nearest, rodent droppings filled old oil barrel I could find and patiently waited for my scarlet colored cheeks to right themselves.


*for all you filthy minded people who imagined a "Jackson" being some "unclean" action or deed or something just plain nasty and inappropriate, shame on you, a Jackson is nothing more than a twenty dollar bill.