By Max Himsl
After the harrowing events of last week’s work party it was necessary to avoid direct exposure to the Articulturist Cult until deprogramming has been deemed fully successful.
It’s true. I have been afflicted by flashbacks to that fateful day and suddenly find myself doodling in the margins of my notepad — making little cartoon insects or flowers or happy faces. It is very difficult to admit, like owning up to an addiction problem, but I am convinced, with support from friends and family, that I will recover. Perhaps it is time to consult with some good Weyburnian citizens, to learn their reaction to this strange cult in their midst.
If this unsanctioned event is to take place who knows what might be the consequences? Surely the people have a right to know that decency and decorum as well as virtue and prudence are well attended to before any innocent citizens might be recklessly exposed to art. In search of informed and knowledgable opinion on the issue, I sought out two random citizens, people that would most likely represent the common Weyburnitious opinion on this important and contentious issue.
The first encounter was with a Mr. Thomas Douglas, who was found strolling along the placid, scenic city centerpiece of Riverview. A spry, elderly gentleman, nattily dressed in a suit and tie he proves an entertaining v with a wide range of interests, though some of his claims seem a little enthusiastic. “I used to be a church minister, yes Sir I was,” he says, and in the manner of all good story tellers immediately tops his own claim with “and a politician too.”
I smiled at this enthusiastic introduction and perhaps he misunderstood for he seemed to take some umbrage.
“ I was, you know. I started my own political party. Andandand I was Premier too.”
Well, clearly here was a bona fide story teller, practicing his craft and he was certainly skilled and I found myself affected and so played along with this fine jester. I laughed appreciatively at his claims as they grew bolder and he feigned great outrage.
“It’s true, it’s all true! I invented universal health care! I’m the greatest Canadian!” At last, he sort of petered out into a sulky muttering about cats in mouseland. I asked him if he knew about Art Farm and showed him one of the advertising cards.
He took the card and pointed. “Yeah, it’s just over there. You can see it from my church.” Speaking with Mr. Douglas did not yield the insights that were hoped for so a second expert opinion was sought.
Contrasting the extravagant claims of Mr. Douglas is the good woman who refused to give her name. Here I found a plain spoken, earthy woman, herding her children and pet chickens on an outing at Jubilee Park. Asked about her views on art and artists, her deeply furrowed brow relaxed and she even smiled slightly.
“I’m a Pioneer Woman. I walked from Regina to the homestead with my husband while I was pregnant with my first child. I was sixteen. We built a sod shack and I decorated it with bouquets of dandelion, thistle, milkweed and grass. Oh we were very resourceful and creative. I’d spread the kitchen scraps according to the principles of feng shui before letting the hens eat them and always kept the hog slops in two pails so I could make decorative designs in the troughs, like a happy face or a leaf. Like a coffee barrista, y’know?”
Suggesting that she must have been much too busy to be an artist produces a long, hearty laugh. “You’re never to busy to be an artist. When I darned holes in socks I made each one a little star or a flower or a moon. When I patched the seat of my husbands coveralls I would make it colourful and charming with red polka dots or maybe a piece of burlap, whatever was around and was attractive. Art is everywhere, if you just look”
She grows animated and points. “See right there? That chicken squirt? See how it looks like a funny little moose’s head? Why don’t you take a picture for your story.”
So what to make of it all? Random people on the street, the bread-and-butter of our fair community are not only supportive of the ArtFarm Cult, but possibly artists themselves.
Is it too late? Are we changing already? Should closed minds really open like a flower, receiving the glowing light of knowledge and giving forth the perfume and pollen of creativity. … Ugh! Flashback.
Therapy resumes on Tuesday.
