Letter to the Bank #35

Dear Banker,

(Knocks on screen of video camera) Helloooo? Anybody there…? (Pauses)

I’ll take a deep breath and start over. I'm not being sarcastic. I really do not know. But assuming there is...here goes.

Do you remember a while back when I promised, however angry I might feel, to remain civil at all times? I wouldn’t swear or use foul language. I wouldn’t call anybody names and I wouldn’t threaten to bomb, burn or generally take out my frustrations on any of your fine institutions—the latter more because I do cherish my freedom and the authorities are so sensitive these days they cannot distinguish between literal and metaphorical, real and imagined. Luckily for them and for me I, like our dear president, do believe in civil discourse. I would never shout: “You lie!” or “You cheat!” across the aisle. I might instead say: “You are a bit blinkered”,  or: “I find you lacking on the imagination front,” or “You aren’t very good at stepping into other people’s shoes are you?” and so employ the brilliant art of English understatement, i.e. I'd take the passive aggressive approach. I roll up my sleeves and dribble instead of spitting. I studied semi-idiotics in school. That is to say: I went to Art School, which brings me to my point, my present point of being in perpetual dire straights (in the middle class sense of dire straights if you get my drift). Who in their right mind goes to Art School? A middle-class, born with a regularly dish-washed spoon in his mouth, kid—that’s who. My parents did all they could to discourage me. They threw logs in my path, moved refrigerators in front of the bedroom door which took a huge amount of effort given my bedroom was on the second floor. They didn’t do so to discourage aspirations so much as to point out how aspirations and earning a living can (and in my case) prove to be quite at odds. That said I love to make art. Oh, boy! Don't I just! Trouble is I can’t, not with infinite bills to pay from an ever-emptying account. It’s problematic.

To your mind I’m sure the effort I put into trying to keep old obsessions alive and, in the case of my children, nurture new ones is, to say the least, counter productive. My son for example has just embarked on a search for a bawu, a kind of Chinese flute. Should I say: You concentrate on your schoolwork young man, and stop wasting my time! I know you think I really need to teach them, preferably by example, how to make a living in this ever changing economy, and, dammit (oops!) You are probably right.

Yours sincerely,

K. Witherkay

PS—Why are artists poor? There is a book by the same name. I haven’t read it yet but just might if I can get my hands on a copy. I'm guessing one problem is they are idealists and despite having no money keep giving the money they don't have to charities and good liberal causes like NPR. I'm curious about what artists of the other extreme give their money to— the NRA? That is fine I suppose as long as they don't have the money.