Just Deserts?

“Would you like cries with that?”
“Would you like to see our whine list?”

Uncurtained windows frame empty frames and empty tables for two. The artist as chef is twice removed by the, as we shall assume by the ironic sign, locked front door to the restaurant /gallery. And by the open, but by definition, closed off door to the ‘staff only’ kitchen. Alone, he eats  his own creations. He becomes his own consumer, he consumes his art himself.

A life-long failure? Or perhaps just stuck in a down cycle longer than a day, more like a winter? Perhaps his cuisine too haute or too low for the couple who seem to hurry by. Or is he merely closed for the night and they are satisfied customers? Glimmers of optimism remain.

No, they are hurriers, passers-by with more important things to do. They are work and love, the empty and the naked, only clothes and no clothes, culture and animal, consumer and consumed. They’ll not stop for art, haute or low.

Making [a living at] art and running a restaurant, are  parallel in some ways. They are both like love and work. The wannabe artist/chef is pushed into it by passion and dragged on by dreams of fame and fortune. Both fail often. With restaurants, it’s more like failures in love–half are gone in first three yrs. With art it’s more like work–a continuing slow failure over a lifetime.

“What garlic is to salad, insanity is to art.”
—Augustus Saint-Gaudens