I, like most children, believe that when an artist finishes a piece, it ceases to be hers. Whatever intent she may have had when she began the work--even the significance of the finished product as seen through her eyes--is ultimately replaced by a third meaning: The perception of the piece as Art, as a single-minded statement within the public discourse.I would argue that this meaning is by far the most valid. In fact, it is the only meaning that truly counts--because it is the meaning that fulfills the underlying goal of all art: To stimulate thought and debate. Usually, it has been my course to stay out of such debate, because, naturally, everything I have to say on the subject is present in the work. In this case, the portrait of our dog, Waffles.
But as an artist who strikes herself deaf and dumb at the completion of each work, this time I cannot help but to feel those whispers that rumble throughout this community. It is no secret: I have been dogged (no pun noticed) by allegations of nepotism since the beginning of my career. Branded, derisively, as "Mommy's little painter." Now, with a full quarter of my lifetime spent under the shadow of this accusation, I feel that I must finally address the issue.
So I ask you now, Mother, in all earnestness: Have my Refrigerator premieres truly been earned, or are they merely the result of some perceived parental obligation on your part?
Why did I paint our dog, Waffles? Why only three legs? Why watercolors? Why with my fingers, instead of a brush? I know the answers to these questions--and I feel that they are spelled out right there on the construction paper. But have you ever asked these questions of yourself? Did any thought, at all, strike you when you first laid eyes on the piece? Are you challenged by it in any way? Or do you merely pretend to be, because I am your four-year-old daughter, your prized protege, another hot young talent to be bandied about town?
After careful thought, I must conclude that if you did ever fully appreciate the implications of my work, that time has long since passed. The pristine face of the Westinghouse--a tantalizing blank canvas in its own right--used to be an illustrious, magical place. A place where all two of your children hoped to have their work showcased and seen by the upper crust of this town's Thursday night book circle. But under your stewardship, this Refrigerator's reputation as a place for serious art has fallen precipitously. Consider that the very magnet holding Waffles #2 above the lip of the ice dispenser now commands more attention than the painting itself! I attribute this to the fact that Waffles #2 lacks the phone number for Domino's pizza, but you, Mother, lack the smallest modicum of taste necessary to keep base commercialism away from this hallowed place!
So, if you at all care to know: I painted Waffles because she is soft. I painted three legs because I forgot how many she had. I am four years old. I needed to render that. You feel the paint ooze between your fingers as you smear it around the paper and then tell me there is any other way to capture the essence of a beagle. You savor the taste of the Crayola watercolors as you suck your fingers clean and tell me there is any medium more teeming with life.
I will spare you any additional arguments and simply say this: Take it down. Remove Waffles #2 from its place on the Refrigerator. I would rather it languish in obscurity than bask in the hollow praise of a philistine such as yourself. I doubt you will, though--just as I doubt you will even take the time to read this page of scribbles and smears and drool. But my feelings are here, just as they are in my painting, whether or not you will decipher them.
Sincerely,
Your Daughter,
NOTE: This letter was edited by Jeff Rukes.
