Times are tough for artists. Times are tough for shrinks. When it comes to saving money, art and psych-me-outs are luxuries, seldom necessities.
The bottom line – tops included – is painting and analysis – worthwhile for juggling Body, Mind, and Spirit cue cards – are not high priority. (Like car payments. Gym memberships. Chicago trip escorts.)
One can dine well on money saved by not buying a well-known artist's work, or by not spending hours on a shrink's heating-adjustable, vibrating leather couch. Free associating. 150 bucks an hour. Still coming out a warmed-over basket case.
I was reflecting on these (hopefully short-lived) money-saving toss-offs when I read an ad that grabbed my attention. It appears in the Adults Only section of a wide-circulation weekly, under the intriguing heading None of the Above.
It's been a long time since I've had None of the Above (or, for that matter, Any of the Below). I get the feeling that its placer is what's known as a performance artist. Highly specialized.
(Over the years our community has seen a number of such practitioners of this mood-enhancing genre – both here and in neighboring Windsor, where performance art is sanctioned not only by the city but, one is given to understand, by the province of Ontario as well.
Canada is a nation of performance artists. Ask any Quebecois politician. Better still, watch any border attendant in action. Just be sure you're not bringing back any questionable items in the trunk of your car – performance artists included.)
What makes this ad entry especially appealing for someone of my sage temperament and easy-going lassitude is that it's offered with a quite legitimate service that I need and rarely engage in if I can help it. Namely house – or studio – cleaning.
The ad reads, "Available to clean your pad in the nude. I work. You watch. I dust. You dally. Windows – for obvious reasons – not an option. Let's work through shared awakenings, handy holiday encounters. Make this Lent memorable. Your laundered sackcloth. My glowing ashes."
Well, let me say from the depths of this year's Sunday sunrise: When it comes to watching someone nude – saint or sinner – I, sketch pad in hand, have no reservations, provided of course the party offering such a buffet spread is visually symmetrical and 40 years younger than me (but, of age legally).
All things considered, I got more – or less – than I bargain for when answering this ad. $25 an hour. No ironing. No frontal iPhone candids. Removal of privacy mask (only following requisite 20-percent tip). Background music requested: Classical – Handel's "Messiah" or Madonna. Light snacks, with heapin' hot cinnamon-stick latte, appreciated. Conversation desired: Lenten topics. No out-of-season trash talk.
Apart from the mask – hiding slightly virginal blue eyes, daring neat blond mustache – logo: W.W.J.Dust? – my cleaning performance artist's a flawless number once he takes off his choir robe. (I do find it a trifle odd he begins a let's-get-back-to basics – non-sexual tea-bagging – preamble.)
"I hope you won't think less of me," he smiles sweetly, while provocatively counting my short-hair brushes. "But I've been inspired to do naked niche ministry as Lenten penance, earning a few tax-free dollars for ongoing reparative therapy sessions. Year five.
"My performance motto: Sin like beauty's in the eye of the beholder. Look. But please resist the temptation to touch. (At least until I've washed your dishes.) Yes, spring's barely here. Easter's not far behind. Enjoy my early riser view."
"Out of curiosity," I ask off-handedly, "Do you like honey mustard on your peanut butter spread? Or, jelly on your hot cross buns?" (Pagan PG readers, feel free to groan.)
