Immortality

I sometimes worry that starving artists will actually starve.

Some of them look so skinny, fragile, and when they look up at you with big eyes and plead for you to PLEASE come to their show, well it’s all you can do to look away and pretend that you have somewhere to go. Luckily, I have just spent some time in New York and am an expert in looking confused (though telling people you only carry credit cards is no longer an effective deterrent).

Since it is quite windy, I am always grateful that starving artists are often clinging on to hundreds of flyers and programs, to keep from air-lifting away.

Perhaps it is not actual starvation that I want to prevent all self-proclaimed artist from experiencing, but a crueler realization that they are something less than talented. I admire the kind of bravery, steel nerves, conviction, fancy, and impracticality that it takes to perform at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I want to shield them all with illusions of huge tickets sales, sold out crowds and endless applause. I want to buy distribute books about artists only recognized posthumously and give everyone the extended opportunity to dream of immortality.