Letter to the Bank Manager #88 (Art Meditates on Bankers and Wild Beasts)

Maurice Vlaminck-The Circus

Dear Bouncy BM,

This is my SHUT UP letter. I tried it out first on an unsuspecting crowd and they were so loud I had to repeatedly yell: “Shut up! Shut up!” I must admit it was quite exhilarating in its own way but that said it verged on the rude. Anyway here, without further ado, the letter:

I think you’ll agree I’ve always been upfront regarding my own inexpertise when it comes to issues of finance. I specialize in exercising my right to talk about stuff about which I know nothing. It must drive you bananas. At least you are free to totally disregard everything I have to say as my outpourings are surely the ravings of a lunatic...nobody! I hope those two words strung together lean towards the poetic rather than the insulting but one never knows. Besides it is me I am being rude to so I’ll sue myself and demand an apology. I'll sue me before someone else does. When playing with words one steps into a minefield. They are explosive in their potential to do damage or offend. I’m anxious to cause damage without offending. I wish only to chip away at those edifices founded on utterly unsound principles, i.e. unprincipled. Financial institutions are overly revered. Out of them come a lie of expertise with which we are bombarded daily. One day the markets are great and strong, the next day they are shaky and nervous. Such market forecasts and readings have nothing, nothing to do with regular people. The experts talk about trillions here and a billion, or two there, knowing full well I cannot relate. It is like the opposite of small print—big print! Print so big we look on it and feel like little ants observing the bottom of a dirty boot! People who live with day to day realities of having to pay a mortgage, feed their kids, feed their souls in pursuit of their dreams, their art, a small organic farm, getting their kids...this one is a bit pushy...an education cannot relate. They must constantly deal with enervating forces imposed on them from without: Jobs they don’t like which fail to appreciate them for their best talents, health insurance supplied by a dubious industry that charges astronomical amounts of money to give one the lie that one will be taken care of in the event of one’s death. They’ll come through for you when you’re dead. Oh! You’re dead! Never mind then. Of course I exaggerate for effect. The cost of everything is getting everyone down, seriously down. People drown in debt as meaningless numbers get tossed around like confetti, numbers that are supposed to explain everything. If you don’t understand...well...you wouldn’t would you? You are not an expert. If you were you’d know how to make money and feed your family and keep a roof over their heads. You’d know better than to take on mortgages you can’t afford. You’d know better than to take on student loans. You’d know enough to not go get educated! You are a failure, a loser, a lazy good-for-nothing. It is easy to throw around putdowns and insults. My favorite insult for you is: Banker! It truly has become a dirty word. Not one to hurl insults I should stop using it but for convenience sake I shall keep employing it in the more traditional sense.
    So what else am I apart from being a loser? Oh yes! I’m: A liberal! A WPA wannabe (spit) artist! A s-o-c-i-a-l-i-s-t! Maybe! Probably I am—all those things and more! The list is massive. The labels go on and on and on. I am a self doubter—jeez! I suffer from scruples—nasty! Your put downs become my badge of honor*. Can I share with you one thing that really bugs me about bleeding hearts? They will not simply admit they care! I would like this government to take care of its poor and hungry, wounded and broken. I’m not sure where you stand on such issues. You are slippery. Corporate value systems are without principle, mutable, they change with the weather.

In my letters I’m trying to express, from every possible angle—like a car mechanic scratching his head in disbelief that he cannot nail down the problem—my continued amazement at an apparent disregard, indifference, to the human toll of the financial crisis shown by those who continue to accept those obscene bonuses with impunity, and by those whose job I thought it was to police them. I meditate on an image of a banker hoping he...the image on my wall is a he as it happens...might one day mutate into the banker of my dreams.

That is it in a nutshell. Of course it cannot stay in a nutshell. It must grow into a mantra. That is why I love the Occupiers. They won’t let this drumbeat stop. Some will try to paint the movement with a broad brush suggesting it is built on envy, is fringe, is the product of snarling fury. The spotlight must be aimed at those who try. The name callers must be outed! They are the modern day equivalent of strike breakers and agitators and  they should be pulled into the conversation whether I, you or they like it or not. With gentle persuasion we might just encourage them to go work in a soup kitchen instead of wielding pepper spray.

Boy do I go on! I bet you put me on speaker phone when I call. I would!

Yours most sincerely your good friend and conscience,


Art O’Connor

PS—Kristian might be back next week to regale you with stories of his travels among the dispossessed. I’m sure you can’t wait.

PSS—* The Fauvists, the wild beasts, adopted the name thrown at them as an insult and now their art is sold for millions! Art is always worth more than money in the end. When will you finally get to grips with this fundamental truth?