Gonzo, part I

The elephant was cause for concern.

The concierge was frantic, and wore a look of desperate resignation, the kind reserved only for a man who knew that what he would have to report to his boss the following morning would very surely cost him his job, his self-respect, and all of the luxuries that had come with the under-appreciated ability to historically keep the peace in a four-star hotel in the middle of the Mexican Riviera. It was hard for me to have any real sympathy for the sonofabitch as I lay crouched behind an awful fern watching the entire scene unfold from the elevator hallway. The bastard wore an offensively red tie that screamed angry, spirit-crushing things at me every time we spoke. He had to have known this would happen. Well, maybe not this (how could he?), but something equally as career-rending.

The large Samoan stood in the foyer wildly flailing his mitts at an army of invisible seagulls. In between blows, he would gesture broadly in the direction of the fern and I, shouting incredible things in a language nobody would believe existed. As bellhops approached him in an attempt to perhaps calm the wild beast and lure him out into the open where a wooden cage ratcheted together with twine and mysterious saps was surely waiting, he took his giant tattooed hand and with one smooth effortless motion pressed the face of the poor fucker that approached first awkwardly into the granite wall beside them. It wasn’t long before the scene had escalated into a horrorshow of vicious slapping noises, panicked racial slurs, and wildly strewn pillbox hats and brass buttons.

This is bad, I said to the fern. My limbs weren’t built for the kind of abuse that animal was dishing out. If he ever gets through that wall of horrible red felt and underpaid generosity, I thought, we’re done for. I screamed sharply, and threw an ashtray in the direction of the front door, but it was too late. My attempt at creating an unnecessary distraction was successful, and the rabid oaf knee-deep in bellhop looked right at me and began lumbering over. SHIT, I thought. So this is how it ended. I should have just left the bastard keep his money and his wife. What the hell did I know about raising Samoan children on the lam? Cursing, I wrestled the trembling fern from its pot and bounded towards the elevators. Jamming on the call button, I waited patiently, as if not under direct threat of being momentarily stamped out of existence whilst holding onto a rather large organic sprout of questionable defense. I turned slowly towards the fire exit several feet away at the end of the hall. The frothing demon couldn’t know that I was about to make a run for it. The elevator was on its way, dammit.

I leapt for the door with a springheel that surprised myself. Smashing clumsily through the mesh-windowed door, I slammed it shut using all of my bodyweight to barricade it as best I could. Panting heavily, I realized with a sorry abandon that the fern had been severed brutally in between the doorframe. It’s better this way, I said, you’d never survive where I’m going. I’ll send help.

By the time I saw crazed Samoan’s eyes glaring at me through the window, my reaction time had surely been slowed by the tremendous amount of chemicals coursing through my blood. I remember flying up against the opposite wall and tumbling less than gracefully down a flight of stairs before the world went black. I remember hearing angry, but satisfied epithets being spittled at me in some grotesque language nobody had ever bothered to put in print. I remember the awful smell of body odour and questionably-sauced chicken dinner before I lapsed into unconsciousness.

It would be some time before I would be able to properly recount what happened next.

Piss, Muck, And Shit: The Artist's Medium

There are three distinct levels of creativity experienced by every artist at any given time: Piss, Muck, and Shit.

Most amateur artists will spend 90% of their time creating Piss. It's raw, ugly, unrefined garbage. Nobody wants to see, hear or read it, including the artist. It just had to come out. It's piss. Piss may be safely discarded and never spoken of again. Perhaps in a waste basket, Recycle Bin, or a car fire.

With some practice and dedication, some artists can elevate their craft to Muck. Muck is okay. Muck isn't great, by any stretch. Muck is largely useless to anybody but the artist. In fact, others may often confuse Muck with Piss. It's somewhat subjective. However, muck still has no business being shared, so it`s the artist's own fault for finding themselves defending their Muck to others. Muck is to be kept private. Nobody else has any business nor interest in another's Muck. However, we should be careful to appreciate Muck for what it is. Muck is an essential step in the process of creating Shit. Muck is the swirling medium of potential salable creativity. If one is lucky, one can sometimes find good building blocks for Shit in one's Muck. Muck is highly unsatisfactory creativity, but it does not make one feel ill or suicidal the same way that Piss does. Muck is generally worth keeping. There is often a strong desire to share muck with others in the hopes of positive feedback. This however often results in quite the opposite: negative feedback. It is important for the artist to be aware at all times of the potential of their particular craft, and to then guage their own work accordingly. If an artist is unable to distinguish between Muck and Shit, they will forever find themselves churning out little more than Piss. Likewise, if an artist is unable to separate their Muck from their Piss, they will never be able to enjoy the experience of sharing a good piece of Shit with others.

As a critic, you must always be on the lookout for Muck masquerading as Shit. You should rarely have to deal with Piss on a professional level.

Shit the height of an artist's craft. It is the ultimate goal of a long, arduous journey through Piss and Muck. At the end of the process, if successful, the artist experiences a feeling of joy and emptiness at the same time as the Shit leaves their body and is presented to the World. A true artist will spend innumerable amounts of time and effort creating pieces of Shit for which they are proud. Many artists will spend their entire careers and/or lives attempting to create Shit and still not succeed beyond their Muck. Often these artist do not spend enough time exploring the Shit of other successful artists. When exploring the world of Art and the Shit in it, it is important to remember in the back of one`s mind all of the time and work that went into creating the pieces of Shit you enjoy. We should all be thankful for the immeasurable amounts of Piss and Muck that we are spared from having to wade through, as the artist has, in order to enjoy the final piece of Shit the way we do.

From Piss to Shit, we should all appreciate where real art comes from.