Once upon a time there lived at a small woman’s college a Drugstore Bohemian who had a thing about ART, specifically poetry. In her reveries, she fantasized about what it would be like to be a patron and surround herself with great minds speaking great thoughts only to her. When she came into her trust fund, she vowed to start a foundation to support all those great struggling souls, and incidentally get in on the ground floor when the next shining light burst forth.
On one of her frequent
cultural scavenger hunts to the big City, fifty minute away by bus, she
walked into a coffee house Open Reading. Aside from the usual crowd of
wanna-be’s and sometimes-were poets was the Great Poet, a friend of the
manager’s looking to get in touch with his roots and read something in
progress to a neutral crowd.
Intuitively she knew him from his worn tweed jacket, brown cords and dusty work boots. The Poet’s mischievous blue eyes sparkled at her when he passed her table on the way to the stage. Ah Swoon! she fluttered inside, this is the Authentic Item!
When he finished, she was in a quandary: should she intrude and gush? But fortunately after the set, The Great Poet joined her for a chat. Not only was he charming, witty AND perceptive, but she found herself accepting his studio invitation so they could continue discussing their shared poetic visions. There she surrendered to his charms as easily as he had done to his verse. Intuitively she grasped his inner needs, and the evening proved to be all that she had imagined. Conquered by Art, the Drugstore Bohemian moved out of her dorm and in with him.
All went well for sometime until she was awakened from a sound sleep by someone who claimed to be his wife and who was demanding the what’s and wherefore’s of the no good SOB. She figured it was another crank admirer and shined it on. However, she grew increasingly tired of never having any spending money and continually battling his numerous creditors. But it was only when he abruptly moved out on her and in with the Chief Art Administrator of the Museum of Fine Arts did she learn she’d been had.
MORAL: Great Art isn’t necessarily the product of Great Men, no matter what they told you in school.