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.

Dear Subway Sandwich Artist

I love the arts. All of them. Even the Sandwich Arts. And I say with the utmost sincerity that I duly appreciate, perhaps in ways that words cannot describe, the speed and skill with which you assemble my $5 footlong coldcut combo on Italian Herb & Cheese during your busy lunch rush. I'm a busy man with barely enough time to commute and eat as it is, let alone to stand in line whilst some lesser slackwit at one of those other sandwich restaurants might take upwards of four or even five minutes to assemble a comparable sandwich, and still get no points for style. But that's what sets you apart from the riffraff; you're an artist. But I digress.

I find it happening with increasing frequency that in your urgency to sate my starving gullet with your avante-garde creations, you've begun to forget the forest for the trees.

You used to assemble ~ahem~ create my sandwich in such a way so as to neatly fit into my mouth with minimal mess and fuss. I recall fondly a time when you would ensure that all of my ingredients were neatly sheltered from the elements securely between two protective layers of bread, exposed only in one tiny sliver of lettuce and meat peaking out from within it's doughy cocoon but all the while remaining resolutely snug and contained. It was folded closed.

I now look on all too often in mild gastronomic uneasiness as you essentially drag your safety blade haphazardly through my submarine with all of the careful precision and intent of a drunken lumberjack ripping through a downed coniferous. The tomato is supposed to go on the inside! Adding insult to injury, you then proceed to make a show of mock-folding my submarine sandwich, only to let it flop open again (which I refer to as fauxlding) before wrapping it open-faced into a sopping wet parchment threatening to spill its contents before you even hand it over to me across your olive-strewn counter, because let's face it - that much lettuce and coldcut simply wasn't meant to be reigned in by a measly foot and a half of soft white bread.

The arts are dying. Slow and painfully. But there are champions at work every day in our cold city doing their damndest -no- their duty to preserve their artform even in the wake of an oppressive Conservative regime seeking to trample it underfoot. It is in this political and social climate now more then ever that we continue to rely on your resolute commitment to defending your and your fellow artisans' artform(s). It is you that are our frontline defender, and altogether beacon for the indomitable human spirit, and I stand behind you. In front of you. Whatever.

But please, hear our cries. Close my motherfucking sandwich. Otherwise, it's just a soggy pizza.


From Rich

Dear guy that keeps breaking into my car

You're in there roughly twice a week. Sometimes thrice. There's never anything in there for you to take, although I do applaud your perseverance and sense of intrepidity in rooting through EVERYTHING inside said car. You did manage to get away with a $3 flashlight last night however, so I suppose sometimes it IS worth it. Having said that, you've now secured the last item of any value from the vehicle (read: that ever WILL be in the vehicle).

I realize my car is easy to break into. To be sure, a 2000 Honda Civic hatchback with no alarm blinky-light thing, no passenger door weatherstripping, or automatic ANYTHING must surely be a beacon of light to any would be car thief. Indeed, my car is about as impenetrable as a high school prom dress. It boasts less security than a crowded bazaar outdoor shirt rack. I even started parking right up against the wall so that my passenger wasn't even exposed/accessible. But I suppose I should've known you'd find another way in. I absolutely did make an ass out of you and me. The trouble is you aren't even a car thief though, are you? No, you're a car rummager. You rummage. I don't even think you're looking for anything in there. You just want to nose around and generally exist inside the car for a little while. You all but ignore the factory CD deck and stereo that would likely go without a fight. Have you considered upgrading your skillset? I must say, it reflects poorly on you as a professional.

Do you accrue bonus points if I happen to leave sheets of paper, flyers, or other loose articles lying on the seat that you can simply strew about haphazardly in an effort to make your rummaging look moderately industrious? My apologies in advance if you actually do this in order to correct the feng-shui within the vehicle that I have so callously disregard on a regular basis.

I suppose what I'm getting at is, how many times can you play the first level of Tetris over and over again before it's just not worth playing anymore? There are several beautiful, brand new $40k+ vehicles in the same lot each night that are guaranteed to reward your efforts at least tenfold compared to the pitiful spoils you reap from my car. I realize the neighbourhood we both share isn't quite the portrait of affluence either of us wishes it were, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't elevate ourselves out of it.

Onward and upward, brave young cutpurse.


From Rich