The Faux Pas Press #11: Art of the Masses

The Faux Pas Press #11

A Weekly Thought

By Jason Scott Chambers

12 October 2009

Art of the Masses

I go back to find the beginning of this week’s thought. The day is Friday, September 25th of 2009, the last Friday of the month; this is an important night, not only for me and my gang of unusual suspects, but for the Honolulu Academy of Art, the spot on Oahu for historic pieces of art. On this night, the Masses wearing Prada sunglasses, plush designer underpants, or a night-life façade flock to the museum. Where do you go to see a bunch of horny older women and fashionable gay men pretending to appreciate the personal sacrifice of history’s greatest artists, artists like Van Gogh (who never sold a piece in his entire life) and Francisco Goya (who saw nothing but the horrors and misery created by the Masses who were not worthy of his art)? Where do you go? You go to Art after Dark, a monthly promotional event held at the Honolulu Academy of Art. Oh, to see and be seen. Oh, the horror that Goya might have painted if he were with me this night! He could have painted wine-drinking socialites, spiritual, enlightened socialites, given away by a set of Buddhist prayer beads around the wrist, showing they were above the beer-drinking masses outside. He might have painted wannabe models strutting around with some hack of a designer’s clothing on; he also might have painted a divorcee going through a mid-life crisis, asking why she can’t bring her martini into the Impressionist section. I would ask him to sketch me scolding some chic with fake tits for taking the sunglasses off my face. Not many changes occur through the centuries, and the Masses are, to a large degree, undeserving of the great art created for them to enjoy. But are they really? Life is art, isn’t it?

Which leads me to Iapetus Galt, the 6’7 comrade who joined me on this evening. (I call him comrade because I know he is a fan of communism and has decided to live a life serving the Masses.) This fucking guy is the most artistic presence in the place – not counting the spirit of Francisco Goya. I see him after paying the $10 cover charge to an older man who, I believe, was crushing on me. Galt is quietly strolling through the section where they keep Asian tapestries. He is wearing one of the many white t-shirts he designs with a black sharpie and his ideals, a pair of black cross trainers, some long jeans with holes in them, and a green and orange hiking jacket. Oh, to be seen and not give a shit. His clothes would come in handy later that night when I would be denied entrance to a totally elegant establishment they call Lotus Soundbar. Galt and I would non-chalantly enter a single bathroom stall attended by an old Filipino man; I would exit the men’s room wearing a pair of tight-ass jeans, tighter than the jeans I normally wear, and Galt would leave sporting my flip-flops and board shorts. Not really a fair trade, but dress codes must go enforced, especially at a high-end joint (wink) like Lotus. Sometimes what life presents to you is one hundred times better than what you could have ever planned out – except for my nemesis, The Korean. (I don’t ever plan on running into that son-of-a-bitch, but it just keeps happening. It doesn’t matter where I go.) Oh, to see life is to see art.

The stars align; sometimes the Moon aligns with Pluto or some other cosmic fancy footwork happens. I don’t know for sure; I don’t read Cosmopolitan that often, but life presents itself. You can choose to see the art or not. My wife, Elizabeth, knows all about encountering the fancy footwork of the Cosmos. In spite of her plans to marry a wealthy lobbyist and to move to Washington, she encountered me in Mid-July of 2008 in a scummy military hang-out in Monterey, California, a place that will remain sacred forever to us. I suppose that she could get hung up about not getting to go to social events and show off her sexy body to Senators, but then she wouldn’t get to attend my first Hollywood premiere or watch me walk away with a Palm d’Or at Cannes. She just have to plan some other trip to a New York City fundraiser with important political figures; And I will not get to go to Las Vegas with strippers and do lots of cocaine in rooms with mirrored ceilings. I don’t think either of us is in question about the most precious artistic manifestation to come out of that first drunken encounter. Yes, again, life is art, the art of the Masses.

A final example of this week’s thought is one I witnessed with the Unusual Suspects, my closest friends. We got together to talk art and business, life and goals. We’d planned on eating at a fine restaurant in Chinatown, a favorite of ours, Indigo. Alex said, “8:30 pm”; I said, “Word,” but I waited there until 9:30pm with no sign. By 10:00 pm, the folks over at Indigo weren’t even trying to serve us food. I left to eat Cuban food; they showed up late after a day at the football game. I could have been steamed, but that hurts me more than anyone. Well, we eventually found ourselves at the perfect spot for conversation, an out-of-the-way Chinese restaurant that I’d never been to. We must have chilled there for about two hours, all of us having a chance to contribute a verse – a great night. You see, it works like that 100% of the time if you will surrender. Remember: the art that you intend to create will show up if you do your work and intend it, and what the gods will present organically will always be one hundred times better than what you could have planned. You don’t have to even look artistic or wear Prada.

Green Lights and Galactic Pulsars of Good.

Jason Scott Chambers