M. V. Montgomery

ART ORTS

warhol

Here, said Andy Warhol, removing his shaggy wig and placing it on my head.  Now tell me what you see. 

I see the illimitable dominion of the religion of consumerism and the branding of celebrity; I see commercial art as the great transmogrifier of all things seeking to attain the aesthetic perfection of Campbell’s soup or Coke; I feel the gossipy love of your work spreading down through shared icons of Elvis and Marilyn, making us all feel part of the scene, making us all feel inside the promised fifteen-minute spark of interestingness.

I’m not freaking Howard Finster, Andy said.  Now give me that back, my head’s getting cold.  

children’s art exhibit

I am at a children’s art exhibit at a museum and find myself strangely drawn to one work: an Indian somewhat crudely put together with construction paper, the feathers of the headdress glued on upside-down.  It is somehow familiar to me.  I see that under the Indian are stacks of old papers containing scribbles and notes like those I might have made as a child.  Some childhood artifacts there look familiar, as well: a small storage chest, a rubber bat with a melted wing, and another craft project with several beads missing.  Toward the bottom of the pile appear more direct proofs of my identity, including an old report card.  But on the project itself is written another name, Khalid-something.  It is clear that this student must have found my old work and submitted it as his own!  

I leave to find a curator, but it is late and none is nearby.  When I do find one, she only reluctantly accompanies me, and along the way passes me off to an intern, a young woman who knows more about the kid’s exhibit.  I lead her up to the Indian.  It now looks different, with strings of blue hair glued on instead of feathers.  But the stack of junk looks the same, so I start to sort with gusto.  

This time, nothing is recognizable.  The old report card in its yellow sleeve: not mine.  I try to save face by pretending that it is.   These last minutes transpire in near-total darkness.   

voudok

A museum tour halted before a grotesquely carved wooden mask thought to date from an  ancient empire.  It was decorated in faded red, green, and gold war paint, and featured  elongated eye sockets and a small round mouth with spiked teeth.  A single word had survived in an inscription below: Voudok. Whether this was the name of a great ruler or forgotten god, the guide narrated, no one knew.  But just then some paint flaked off, revealing the full text of the inscription.  It read, Designed by Voudok.