The Case of the Bad Rug Student

by Lisa

                               The Donald Trump toupee on a baby

I have been teaching for about ten years now. Literally hundreds of students have crossed the threshold of my door. For the most part, I am proud to say that I am well liked, and well respected (as cranky as I can be at times), and I have been very successful as a painting instructor.

Of the perhaps five hundred students that I have taught and had good experiences with, I can think of three, maybe four whom I simply did not jive with, and for one reason or another could not handle for a win win situation for student/teacher. That constitutes than 1% of my student population if you do the math (which I suck at so I hope you do).

The first student I encountered that I could not work with wore a toupee about as convincing as the one on the baby above. I tried hard to overlook the toupee. But I am toupee sensitive. I can spot a rug from miles away. There was just something about a dentist in a big fluffy toupee that I had trouble getting around. Then, when it came time for him to write an evaluation of me at the end of the term, I got a scathing review from him. My boss at Cheekwood, in Nashville, where I was teaching at the time found it  quite amusing because I always got rave reviews, and here was one that said things like–he’d be better off watching Gilligan’s Island reruns than attending my classes. Okay, I admit, I did not make much of an effort to help him (all I could do was stare self-consciously at the rug). I thought he’d be better off watching Gilligan’s Island reruns too. He also said my models were deplorable (the staff booked them, not me–oops!) Make no mistake. I do not feel guilty trashing him here about his hairpiece. He did blasheme me.

There was one who got angry at me on the first night of class because she thought she was coming for a relaxing evening of painting, and apparently I was too intense for her. I was real sorry to see her name marked off my roster the next week.

One woman had fainting spells everytime I came to her on the first day of class. Hey, I am 5′2″ tall. I do not have fangs and claws.

Then there was the student who argued with me about everything. No matter what I would suggest to her, she would have a reason for not doing it to my specs, and before the entire class would argue with me, questioning my ability to teach, and taking up valuable class time when I could be helping those who wanted or could be helped. In this case the student got fired. By me.

It happens. I cannot please them all. I do ask that you not darken my door if you a wear toupee, nerves on your sleeve, or noisy gold clogs when you walk into my class–not if you want a good little teacher out of me. PS. The older I get, the pickier.

Love you. Love me?

38-22-38

By WR Jones

 

    38-22-38   This is a symbolic painting.  If you men can’t figure out the symbolism here, better toodle on down to your doctor and get checked for a testosterone leak.

    Of course, all painting is symbolic in a sense.  When you paint a tree you have a symbol of a tree.  I like to get the trees looking so real Mango lifts his little leg and gives his blessing.  Or, he could simply be expressing his opinion, I guess.

    I don’t like the symbolism where this thing represents that and that thing represents the other,  there is something doofus about having a spoon stand for a woman and the sugar bowl represent that time dad whipped your ass for throwing rocks at the neighbor’s cat. 

    Maybe it is because I can never figure out what the hell the author/painter is trying to say.  Why can’t they just tell me what the devil they mean?   I don’t like poetry for the same reason.  Mostly I don’t get it.  I think those uppity people who defend poetry don’t get it either.  Their little scattered brains make up some meaning that they think is crystal clear, but really is not close to what the author had in mind.   Ya, ya, ya,  there is some poetry that is succinct and beautiful.  Those poems are as rare as uplifting stories on the gloom monger newscasts.  Finding them is like playing the lotto for retirement funding.

    Speaking of uplifting – I was watching a piece on TV Sunday that showed a clip filmed by an Iraqi sniper team as they waited for an American National Guard medic to turn so they could shoot him.  They shot him in the chest with the bullet taking off his tumbnail on the way in.  It knocked him down but his body armor saved him.  He jumped up and ran behind his vehicle to direct fire on the Iraqis.   The American unit chased the sniper team.   One of them escaped but the shooter was wounded; they followed his blood trail and captured him.  THEN, then, the medic he had shot treated the Iraqi’s wounds.

    Wow, I can’t imagine having the discipline and humanity to treat someone who had just shot me.  I would want to kill him and his momma for having him.   I’m betting you never saw this story on a newscast.  You probably saw a story where some child was blown up, woman raped, eggs sucked, etc.

    This painting has a fairly dark background like those Lisa likes so much – take a suck a that, Leffel.

Don’t Scalp the Messenger

by Lisa

 

            This is not my photo. It came right off the Autry Museum site.

On Saturday I had the very clever idea to go to the Indian festival at the Autry Museum in LA.  Each year I attend the beautiful show of paintings at the Autry Museum –Masters of the American West–and there are always many paintings of Indians in the show. I figured that the painters must go to this Indian festival to get reference pictures. So off I trotted to take glorious pictures of the the noble Indian from which I would create a beautiful masterpiece to enter into the show next year.

I paid my little $6 fee and walked right in laden with all my camera gear, right past the table that said “register your camera here”. I did not notice them–they did not notice me. Honestly. I’m not lying. I WISH I had registered my camera because maybe I would have been more prepared as to what I was about to encounter.

The first really colorful Indian I saw, I walked right up to, assuming this was old hat/headress for him, and said, “Can I take your picture?”. He glared at me and told me that he was talking to someone. I had interrupted him. Just as I was turning to slink away, he looked around again and said, and I quote, “Are you going to use this to exploit me?” “Exp-, exploit-, well no, I’m just a painter trying to get reference photos”. At which point he begrudgingly agreed and I snapped one shot of him snarling at me.

And this set the mood for the rest of my photo shoot which lasted all of about 10 more minutes during which time I got a total of 5 more shots of an Indian glowering at me, an Indian smirking at me, an Indian giving me the evil eye, two cute little girl Indians who didn’t know better and grinned big smiles for me,  and an Indian chain smoking cigarettes (what the hell, I just snapped that picture without asking and ran). In essence, those big bad Indians intimidated the crap out of me.

I’d say they were testy Indians with just a little resentment still. What do you think? Do you suppose I’d get accepted into the Masters of the American West Show if I painted an Indian spitting on me? What the hell. There’s enough paintings of the regal Indian looking westward into the sky.