 Ghosts of Modernism-------> “I knew Jackson Pollock…and brother, you are no Jackson Pollock.” The speaker was wizened, shrunk down in his clothes, his long greasy hair going to gray from blonde. He fixed the hairy eyeball, and waved one disjointed finger, stained yellow from tobacco. “Listen to him, he’s been sitting on that barstool since we bought Manhattan from the fuckin’ Indians, just ask him.” “hah-hah-hah. Very funny.” But the rest of the bar thought so, and laughed with the bartender. The bar had long since lost it’s elegance, whatever it had originally had in the nineteen-twenties. But the neighborhood had grown up around it, and now was the denizen of smart boutiques, fashionable restaurants and oh-so trendy galleries. Now the young and celebrated held court here, it being considered fashionable to rub elbows with the real Bowery Boys. The artist, the subject of this miniature’s derision, turned towards him smiling. “Garcone, buy this man a drink on me. Let’s hear his high opinions on art.”
©
2001 William Cruz. All rights rabidly reserved |