Dispatch 42
Palm Springs Art Museum
February 11, 2019
Greetings Fellow Adventurers!
I am sure you agree that there is no good reason I should ever be in an art museum. Yet, there I was on Sunday morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed; under the thumb of Scout who had forced me into town, from our desert bush camp, for a bit of culture.
Palm Springs Art Museum
February 11, 2019
Greetings Fellow Adventurers!
I am sure you agree that there is no good reason I should ever be in an art museum. Yet, there I was on Sunday morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed; under the thumb of Scout who had forced me into town, from our desert bush camp, for a bit of culture.
Now, I am also sure that most of you adventurers would not look my way if you needed insight regarding the meaning of a Botticelli painting or Bernini sculpture and right you would be. However, when it comes to the paint pallet I think my opinion is a good as the next fellow’s in regard to a Remington or Moran. Give me a good old American oil dabber, over an uppity foreigner, any day of the week.
I was having a pretty amusing time glassing the canvases and chuckling out loud over some of the dog's breakfasts that pass for art in this town. I have seen more aesthetic value on the sheets of plywood used in paintball wars! It was when I was sharing my observations with a few of my fellow patrons that the trouble began.
Up came one of those well-dressed Joes that look snappy but almost certainly could not clean a trout, or even a rifle, if their privileged life depended on it. Sensing trouble, my audience had drifted away and there I was nose to nose with a genuine art curator. He asked me what the disturbance was about and I pointed to the four by eight-foot modern art monstrosity and told him I thought he should not sell it to someone building a chicken coop because the hens would stop laying. That he ought to get his money back and invest it in a collection of kindergartner's finger-paintings. He replied that I had the artistic sense of a meerkat and should get back on my camel and ride into the desert or better, over a cliff. I said I would be happy to, right after I cleaned his clock. It was then, as I stepped back, rolling up my sleeves, and lifting my dukes that the security guards came around the corner.
Jeez, I don’t know where they hire these guys. I have had dealings with quite a few security guards in my time and they all have handled me like a sack of spuds being tossed into a boxcar. Before I could say, Rembrandt, I was out the front door and bouncing down the marble staircase. There I sat for forty-five minutes, licking my wounds, until Scout, who had been on another floor, came out exclaiming what a wonderful time she had had and where had I gone? I told her I had felt the need for a breath of fresh air and a practice session building slings, for twisted arms, out of old bandannas.
Well, we continued our morning in Palm Springs, she walking with a spring in her step, me limping along behind. If I am exposed to any more culture down here I may never see Idaho again.
I was having a pretty amusing time glassing the canvases and chuckling out loud over some of the dog's breakfasts that pass for art in this town. I have seen more aesthetic value on the sheets of plywood used in paintball wars! It was when I was sharing my observations with a few of my fellow patrons that the trouble began.
Up came one of those well-dressed Joes that look snappy but almost certainly could not clean a trout, or even a rifle, if their privileged life depended on it. Sensing trouble, my audience had drifted away and there I was nose to nose with a genuine art curator. He asked me what the disturbance was about and I pointed to the four by eight-foot modern art monstrosity and told him I thought he should not sell it to someone building a chicken coop because the hens would stop laying. That he ought to get his money back and invest it in a collection of kindergartner's finger-paintings. He replied that I had the artistic sense of a meerkat and should get back on my camel and ride into the desert or better, over a cliff. I said I would be happy to, right after I cleaned his clock. It was then, as I stepped back, rolling up my sleeves, and lifting my dukes that the security guards came around the corner.
Jeez, I don’t know where they hire these guys. I have had dealings with quite a few security guards in my time and they all have handled me like a sack of spuds being tossed into a boxcar. Before I could say, Rembrandt, I was out the front door and bouncing down the marble staircase. There I sat for forty-five minutes, licking my wounds, until Scout, who had been on another floor, came out exclaiming what a wonderful time she had had and where had I gone? I told her I had felt the need for a breath of fresh air and a practice session building slings, for twisted arms, out of old bandannas.
Well, we continued our morning in Palm Springs, she walking with a spring in her step, me limping along behind. If I am exposed to any more culture down here I may never see Idaho again.
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Arguably the best painting ever made. So much symbolism on so many levels. Certainly my favorite masterpiece. 
