Me: I'm excited about today's instalment of People Week because we're going to be talking about my very own people, artists. They are a group that draw both love and hate from the population. The love is for their work and the hate is for them. And now, to help us get this intriguing discussion started, would you all please welcome Jacqueline Japeski!
(Applause. Enter Japeski. Greetings.)
Me: Thank you so much for being here tonight.
Japeski: My pleasure. I'm surprised you asked me.
Me: Why?
Japeski: Because I'm not a rich and famous artist. I'm just a talented one.
Me: That's exactly why I wanted you here. Being an artist essentially has nothing to do with being rich and famous.
Japeski: But all the great ones made it big.
Me: Only God knows who the real talent is.
Japeski: I suppose that's true.
Me: May I ask what you do for money?
Japeski: I work in a laundromat.
Me: Of course. She can paint circles around her art teacher, so they stick her in a laundromat. What do your parents think about your job?
Japeski: Oh, they're just glad I'm working at a real job because they think painting is just a hobby.
Me: Do either of them paint?
Japeski: Dad painted our kitchen cupboards, but neither of them knew how to paint photographic looking portraits from a live model.
Me: I'm so sorry you got stuck with such Philistines for parents. Usually parents believe in their children's talent.
Japeski: I heard that your parents didn't believe in your talent either.
Me: Please, let's not go there.
Japeski: (laughing) And I heard that when you were little your father used to make you hold nails for him as he drove them in with his hammer. And sometimes he missed.
Me: Jacqueline, please.
Japeski: (laughing) And I heard that your mother threw out the art school application you gave her to -
Me: I SAID I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THAT! (Silence.) We'll be right back after the commercial, folks. Jacqueline Japeski! (Applause.)
*********************************************
Commercial: The Rocket
(A night club. A man tries to make contact with a woman as she stares at a guitar virtuoso performing on the stage.)
Man: Hi there!
Woman: Can't you see I'm busy?
(He walks away with his head down in defeat.)
Announcer: Don't let all the chicks go to some jerk with more talent. Get the Rocket, the amazing new self-playing guitar.
(The man at home with his new Rocket.)
Announcer: Just plug the Rocket into your stereo and let it record your performance for you. Just like that, you're ready for the stage.
(The man on stage, playing a guitar solo as the girls swoon.)
Announcer: And if you cause enough of a sensation with your Rocket, don't worry. The music business doesn't care if you really know how to play.
(The man plays a stadium gig in front of a gigantic monitor.)
Businessman: I said to keep the camera away from his hands!
Technician: Sorry!
(After the show, the man meets his all-girl entourage.)
Announcer: The Rocket. Blast off to the life you deserve.
*********************************************
Me: I think I'm over the emotional trauma caused by my last guest. I'm sure she meant me no harm. So, on with the show. Up next is a sculptor who has organized a support group for people of talent. Would you kindly welcome Marcel DuMaurier!
(Applause. Enter DuMaurier. Greetings.)
Me: I absolutely love your work.
DuMaurier: Thank you! What do you like about it?
Me: I love your sketches. Brilliant. Such mastery of pen and wash.
DuMaurier: The sketches? What about the sculptures?
Me: They look just like your sketches. Very impressive. Can I ask how this support group of yours is coming along?
DuMaurier: It's at the end of its rope.
Me: That's too bad. Have you run out of funding?
DuMaurier: No, I mean that most of our members have hung themselves.
Me: How terrible! Still, I'm not surprised. You're born with all this talent and people just rub your nose in it all your life, telling you that if you were any good, you'd have money, as the money guys leave you to rot. You can't relate to anyone around you because your mind doesn't work the same way. You end up rejected by family, friends, work mates, everyone.
DuMaurier: I heard that you had some close friends that took their own lives.
Me: Yes, I don't care to discuss that.
DuMaurier: And one of them let you borrow his car and you got in an accident and damaged it.
Me: I'd rather not think about that.
DuMaurier: And one of them even told you he was going to do it and you told him to quit being such a baby.
Me: I SAID I DON'T CARE TO DISCUSS THAT! NOW LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE! (I break down into fitful sobs.) Reggie, I didn't mean it! Reggie, we all miss you! Oh God! (handkerchief covering my face, waving my free hand) Go to a commercial!
(Commercial.)
Me: Once again I've managed to regain my spirits enough to carry on with this deeply personal topic. I'm going to ask you to try to be open-minded about my next guest. He's a conceptual artist and they tend to be the most misunderstood. Would you please welcome Jim Slim!
(Applause. Enter Slim, who turns out to be of medium build.)
Me: You make art out of automotive parts. Is that right?
Slim: Best in the business.
Me: Do you make sculptures out of them?
Slim: Sort of. I sometimes have to do some body work.
Me: Yes, that is a lot like sculpture.
Slim: But my real talent is for painting. I mean, how I paint the -uh- sculpture.
Me: Is that important?
Slim: Very important.
Me: I know you conceptual guys are always pushing the boundaries, but doesn't what lies under the paint job of a sculpture actually define it?
Slim: Yes it does. And that's why it needs to be hidden by a nice fresh paint job.
Me: (after pausing to examine my guest more closely) Wait a minute. I know you! You were on the news last week. You're wanted on over three hundred counts of grand theft auto!
Slim: And I thought you were open-minded enough to see that I'm an artist just like you.
Me: You're a rip-off artist! And the authorities have been alerted.
Slim: Oh oh! (he gets up and makes a run for it.)
Me: Come back here! Stop, thief! THIEF!
(Commercial.)
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