As I get older… losing my hair… well, okay… growing my hair long to cover psoriasis sores… I don’t get to actually use Beatles’ lyrics in this post except for the opening of the misleading lead sentence. But as my life and movement is limited more and more to one room of the house (okay two rooms, the bathroom is practically an equal partner in my life story) I have expanded outward by turning inward. I look inside at all that is creative in me and commit acts of gaseous art. “Art farts” is the term pointed to in the title. I spend some of my more difficult sick days making art out of the clutter and doll collections that surround me in my bedroom.
Small bits and pieces when I am in too much pain to draw can make interesting still lifes or collection-clutter documentation.
The bustling city that has grown up on my upstairs bookshelves is also fascinating.
And it isn’t a matter of always being in bed and never getting out. I managed to get several pictures of Anselmo the cattle egret that lives in the park. He has gotten used to me taking his picture as I walk the dog five times a day so she can load the park with poop (which I do pick up in plastic bags, by the way).
And why do I call him Anselmo? Well, look at him, that pointy beak, that staring eye… He just looks like an Anselmo. I taught three Anselmos in 31 years of teaching, so I ought to know one when I see one.
So, what exactly is an “Art Fart”? Well, making artwork out of the things you see every day around you. Like fart gas, it is a natural outcome of digesting stuff. And why am I surrounded by so many toys and weird things? Well, I am a Mickey after all. And this is my second childhood… or third… or tenth… of three-hundred and thirty-fifth… but who’s counting?