Sometimes You Just Can't Separate the Art from the Artist

 

In the worlds of art, literature, music — really anywhere in the realm of human endeavor — it can often be difficult to separate the art from the artist.

I learned that firsthand during my brief stint as assistant to the curator of an art gallery in Philly.

“Welcome, Ambrose, we’re thrilled to showcase your work!” I gushed as I greeted the latest artist we were exhibiting, Ambrose Dehaven.”

“I’m not satisfied with the way you’ve arranged my paintings,” Ambrose replied flatly.

“I need to make crucial aesthetic changes immediately.”

With that, he moved "Still Life with Stale Fruit" to the opposite wall and hung "Starry, Starry Night Sweats" catty‑corner to the Men’s Room.

Odd, but okay.

Then Ambrose stayed all day in the gallery, surveilling his paintings like a man

guarding rare treasures, adjusting the picture frames by millimeters, and repeatedly performing that sensitive gesture where you kiss your fingers and fling them outward towards the object or objects of your admiration and affection.

In this case, his paintings.

Every one of his paintings.

At closing time I said, “It’s 5:00, Ambrose. Time to lock up and go home.”

“Oh,  no, I’m not leaving,” he declared. “I always have a sleepover with my paintings.”

The next morning I went straight to the curator.

“With respect to Ambrose Dehaven,” I said, “I’m afraid I cannot separate

the art from the artist.”

“That can often be difficult,” she replied. “But you must try.”

Ambrose slept over the next night and the next night after that.

I tried to encourage him to leave the gallery. I offered to take him out to the best steak dinner in town, fix him up with my sister even though I don’t have one, and told him I would sleep over in his place and tell compelling campfire stories to "Whistler’s Stepmother."

No dice.

One day a bedraggled woman entered the gallery.

“Please come home, Ambrose!” she begged. “Little Ambrose needs you!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dehaven,” I said to her. “Nothing I say or do will separate the

art from the artist.”

After eight long days - and nights - finally the exhibition ended.

“Goodbye, Ambrose,” I said. “I guess you’ll go home now to see little Ambrose.”

“Who?”

And with that, Ambrose left the gallery, gently cradling "American Goth Girl" and

"Whistler’s Stepmother" in his arms.

With Ambrose gone, we prepared for the next artist.

“I hope I won’t have a problem with this one like I did with Ambrose,” I told the curator. “This time will I be able to separate the art from the artist?”

“Well… yes and no.”

“Excuse me?”

“This artist definitely goes home at night.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“On the other hand, his name is Vlad.”

“Vlad who?”

“Vlad the Impaler.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I never even knew this guy could paint!