The Artist had run aground. His creativity was sandbarred. He stared glumly at his tablet. He drank a machiato. Then a mojito.
Nothing helped. Not even the serious consideration of a return to smoking.
Flash forward a week. He has abandoned the creativity-prison of his home office! He has flown around the world, emptying his bank account to stalk inspiration.
Those people over there! They offer the key. They always do.
Cut to the Himalayas. He is hiking in the mountains of Nepal. The weather sucks, his hope is trounced. But wait! What’s that? Ah, he has finally understood: The angle of a kangaroo’s hind leg traces the perfect line to support an industrial chic side table. He quickly knocks on a villager’s door–the tablet is back in Katmandu, dammit–and make his desperate need for a writing utensil known. All they have is a burnt stick? Never mind, never mind, that will do. Give him space! He’s on the cusp.
The Artist has sketched the kangaroo-leg table on a piece of yellowing newspaper. It is perfect!
He hightails it back to Katmandu. He sends an image as fast as possible back home. His work here is done.
It is perfect! This is The Artist people buy, when they buy things that are supposedly artistic.
He does not challenge. He accents. He does not sit as you do, behind desks, on phones, at a screen. He is free spirit! He lives for you, goes places too dirty, distant, disturbing for you to bother with. Where there is no WiFi. Yet he does not look down on you. In fact, see him peering up? He adores you. Which is why he walked all that way, over perilous high passes, to remember a kangaroo’s leg and make you a nice table.
Thank you, Artist.