“Just look at the stunning juxtaposition of light and dark in this piece.” said the middle-aged woman standing next to me. “What a powerful symbolic representation of the constant struggle between good and evil. A fierce rebuke of capitalism and its corrupting influence on us all, I'd say. Why the artist's very soul is absolutely screaming to me.”

I was a little puzzled, looking at the uneven smear of dark green and brown paint, interspersed with flecks of what appeared to be Cheerios, which was clinging precariously to the piece of plywood in front of me. I thought it looked more like a hairball than a metaphor for anything. A fierce rebuke of breakfast, perhaps.

“Screaming to you?” I asked.

“Oh my yes. Can't you hear it, darling?”

“I wasn't even aware that I was supposed to be listening for it.” I said innocently.

“Well you see that is precisely the problem with most people, my boy!” she laughed. “They only look at a piece of art, they don't consider for even a moment that to truly appreciate the subtle nuances of a piece, one must use all of one's senses.”

“All of my senses, huh?” I inquired, not quite willing to agree with her assertion that the collection of paint and breakfast cereal before me was art.

“Oh yes, absolutely all of your senses.” she said.

“Should I lick it?”

“Oh don't be ridiculous, darling. You taste with your eyes.”

“Oh, of course. What was I thinking?” I said, somewhat sarcastically. She didn't notice.

A woman wearing a bright-yellow leotard, a pair of John Lennon glasses and a pink feather boa just called me ridiculous. I've obviously entered another dimension. A dark and evil dimension.

“Taste with my eyes? I think I can do that.” I said. And why not? If this woman has apparently mastered the ability to think with her ass, who's to say that I couldn't taste with my eyes?

“Are you tasting, dear?” She asked earnestly.

“Umm, I'm not sure. What should I taste, exactly?”

“I can't tell you. One must taste for oneself.” she said solemnly. “One must taste for oneself.” she repeated; for emphasis I suppose.

“Seems reasonable.” I said, forcing my mouth, very much against its will, to use those words in this painfully unreasonable context. “Umm, it tastes like...”

I had to think quickly now. What on Earth should I say? Root beer? Grapefruit? Tobacco spit? How the hell should I know? This woman is clearly insane. Uh-oh, she's looking at me. I better say something.

“It tastes like...butterscotch?” I said weakly, knowing full well that she would never let me leave until I gave her a satisfactory answer.

“Butterscotch!?!” she exclaimed. “Butterscotch!?!”

“Um, yeah. I-I think so.”

She was staring directly at me. Her face wore a look of either absolute disgust or mild indigestion, I couldn't tell for certain. I knew it. I should have gone with grapefruit, I thought. Why would it taste like butterscotch? Moron!

I began to feel a little uneasy as she continued to stare at me. She barely moved anything, save her eyes. They were darting back and forth between the painting and me, all the while with that look on her face. It was clearly indigestion—I was sure of it now. Just when I was about to break the silence, she snapped back to life.

“Absolutely brilliant, my boy!”

“Huh?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Simply brilliant! Why I've never heard a more eloquent and poignant analysis of the visual flavor of this particular piece. Butterscotch, of course! You are obviously a very gifted young man.”

“Uh, gee thanks, I guess.” I said and then quickly excused myself.

What made me say butterscotch, you ask? I really couldn't tell you. Lucky guess, I suppose. Obviously the painting had some sort of “butterscotchy” quality that was completely beyond my detection. I must say, while it is nice to find out that I can be both eloquent and poignant in my artistic analysis, I don't think that I will be attending my local second grade craft fair next year. The deep spiritual messages which are apparently contained within finger paintings are entirely too much for me to decipher. Plus, I didn't like the way those little kids kept eyeballing me.

Pfft...artists.

-Derek Miller
4/7/08