Letter to the Bank #76 (Trouble With The Hand That Feeds)

Dear Mr. Bullrider,

I’ve long discussed with you the troubled relationship my elusive friend, Art, has with money. There he is struggling to beautify or/and enlighten the world through his bizarre inclination to make art objects. His objects become objects of desire and naturally he is happy to see them find homes as people deign to acquire them. They do so for a prearranged price or through an entertaining transaction, or by barter, mechanisms for exchange as old as the hills. Naturally with the cost of living almost impossible to aspire to at this point in the millennium he hopes the exchange is advantageous enough that he is able to feed his children using the proceeds from the sale. Now as it happens those able to part with money over such frivolous transactions as the acquisition of Art may often be in the enviable position to do so on a regular basis. They become patrons of art. They build art collections. Some of that art has strained to be pleasing often in a very canny way, appearing confrontational whilst, with a knowing wink, working for the owner, whoever that may be, as a status symbol. This kind of art is referred to as Blue Chip art. It has become as dubious as the money used to acquire it. The two are in cahoots. They may come from new or old money and in either case are like pet owners, the artists being their pets. But the bigger the pet and the bigger the art, the less patronizing and more equal the relationship between the two. Naturally the owner of a great dane is respectful enough to not invite the ire of a dog so big. Meanwhile many of us little artists are scurrying around looking for owners, for galleries, for soap boxes from which to express and scream, talk and dream, troubled by the compromise that is inevitable in the symbiotic relationship between art and art owner. Now once in a while the pet gets unreasonable doesn’t like the food being proffered and feels an inclination to bite the hand that feeds, a hand that is likely as not deep in the till of the financial system that is burning us all. Art is compromised. Art feels sick. Art is suffering. Art will lash out. Art might defecate on the stoops of the very galleries that, purportedly support his/her actions.

Art has no choice but to keep being rude and keep hoping their patrons will turn the other cheek and hand over a check as they do so. Art then, with clothespin on nose, accepts the check graciously and heads off to pay the mortgage on his underwater domicile.

Yours sincerely,


Kristian Witherkay

PS—Art is home in bed as we write, suffering from a nasty head cold (could it be strep?) and a debt crisis. Perhaps you could help? Maybe you could...buy some of his objects, objects made only with the intent to communicate, to get through (to you), though admittedly, at times, in a thoroughly oblique way. What can I say: He/She is elusive.

PPS—Why do I say She? Thing is the Art I know is a strange fellow with theatrical mutton chops (think that’s the correct term), but he is anxious you should know he has a sister in arms, Artemis, who is out there disturbing the peace with challenging objects of her own. I’ve not met her in person but see her work everywhere.