Cortizone          

Cortizone knew the art of faking art, slathering wide swaths of symbolism onto fields of green and gray. He had great technical talent but no soul. This he knew.

Everything that he controlled was attitude, and at that, he was a master. His standard response was that to speak of his work would deprive the observer from their own subjective meaning. He would drop names - oh, would he - but none from within the art world. That too would betray meaning, or the lack there of.

Antigone was his disciple. Antigone, he thought, was as stupid as the day was long. Once a week she would come to Cortizone's studio, watching silently as he painted, speaking only to acknowledge Cortizone's meaningless pronouncements.

"The proletariat will feel the touch of redemption only when the last drop of vengeance is wrung from the beekeeper's veil."

"Yes, Cortizone."

Damn, that line even sounded dumb to Bill Willard (AKA Cortizone) himself. He dabbed his brush into a blob of bloody crimson and began the outline of a swan onto a burnt orange background. Why a swan? Because it was the first thing that popped into his mind, and he needed to seem decisive while his disciple looked on.

In the future, Antigone would film him at work, producing a documentary that decisively voiced her impressions of Cortizone's work. The documentary would be seen by a small but influential audience, and it would solidify Cortizone into Antigone's meaning, where he would dwell forever as a minor actor.

In the future, Antigone would film a deeply stirring fiction, slathering wide swaths of symbolism onto fields of green and gray. Cortizone would see the film and know that it was art. No explanation would be necessary, and Bill Willard would feel that his life had been given value.

 

© 2004, Mark Hoback

Mark Hoback writes at Fried Green al-Qaedas