The Cautionary
Tale of a Young Doodler
Dear
Ned,
I’m such a fan of yours that I feel compelled to write you about
me problem. I find meself in a peculiar situation, which troubles me greatly and from which I see no escape. This peculiar
situation has cost me me job and me privacy, and brought me unwanted attention from worldwide media. Although I am now considerably
richer than before, I pine relentlessly for me former life in which I was a lowly-paid administrative assistant civil servant
of the 14th grade (an entry level slash typing pool type of situation), whom nobody knew or indeed wanted to. But
now I find meself hounded by the media who pursue me from dawn to dusk, recording the most mundane events of me daily life
(the other day I found a YouTube video of me taking the garbage out! – 227, 357 hits in three hours) and go to great
lengths to secure personal items, such as me toenail clippings, to hawk on eBay. Only someone like you, dear Ned, who has
undoubtedly suffered similar indignities, can understand the anguish I am going through. I sincerely hope you will be able
to help.
All this palaver started
when I’d inadvertently entered an arts competition. You see, I used to have an insignificant administrative
post at a famous cultural institute in me city – I won’t tell you where it is but if I told you the name of this
institution you would recognize it immediately – and up until recently was quite happy there, performing me duties diligently
and with the sort of enthusiasm one can expect from an eighteen-year-old high school dropout. The tasks I was charged with
were very simple, reflecting me age and the entry level position I was in. All I had to do was register
people for various courses and events the institute has to offer. There never was much interest as we live in a coastal town
where the beaches are close and the weather is good, and where most people like to drink beer and barbecue on the weekends,
so really, I mostly had bugger all to do. I napped a lot or else watched YouTube surfing videos. On the odd occasion where
there was an inquiry, I dealt with it as I’d been conditioned to do – I sent them to a link on our website or
else I promised to send them info in the mail, a promise I hardly ever fulfilled as I was usually too busy doodling when I
was talking to people on the phone so I’d forget to take down their address. As nobody ever complained (attending arty
‘dos’ are the sort of flights of fancy most folks do not take seriously so it’d be easy to forget you’d
requested a pamphlet about them), I spent me days aimlessly doodling. Thinking nothing, doing nothing,
it was a bloody good way to spend the working day. Or so I thought. Little did I know that it would be these aimless doodles
that would prove to be the bane of me existence in the end!
Wouldn’t you know it, dear Ned, but I got quite good with the doodling – nothing fancy, mainly stick figures
and smiley faces in pencil or pen or, on the odd occasion when I couldn’t find one in me drawer, a highlighter or a
stray crayon I found in the auditorium, depicting simple themes reflecting me interests – stick figures on surf boards,
in the waves, making beer bottle pyramids on the beach, making out with stick figure girls – you name it, I drew it.
Then one day I had a particularly long phone conversation with a keen supporter of the arts who was a wee bit deaf, so I managed
to cover an entire A3 sheet I had on me desk lying in front of me. I can’t tell you what I had intended to draw originally
but by the time I finished the call, the paper was covered with doodles from top to bottom, side to side. Me doodles that
day tended more to the abstract, reflecting the strong feelings I had experienced during that fateful conversation. I did
throw in a couple of solid pieces, such as a clenched fist, and one with the middle finger raised, a bleeding heart with a
knife sticking out of it, and a few doodles of a coarser nature featuring bits of human male anatomy locked
in other bits of human male anatomy. Looking at the sheet, I found the entire repertoire of human emotions reflected there
– from impatience to anger, to rage, to murderous intent – a crescendo of feelings I never would have thought
possible to find hidden inside me but there you have it, Ned, it was there, right in front of me stapler, for me to behold.
As this was closing time and I had a hot date, I foolishly left the paper there and went home. And that’s where I went
wrong.
In the morning, I fronted up for
work as per usual, ready for a nap after a big night, only to find the gallery director, the curator and the head of the department
assembled around me desk, pondering me doodles with a serious air. Cut a long story short, they entered me in the competition
under Contemporary, and I won! I did! I won a shitload of money and a new job – I am now the Artist
in Residence in the under 30 category. Me days now are considerably busier since I’ve taken up me new post – no
amount of pleading with the brass spared me this, even though I owned up I never had any training or indeed interest in the
fine arts, the doodling being the result of a boring desk job with little outside stimulation, the brass decided I take up
the job if only to avert a scandal which could see the entire panel of judges sacked – and so here I am teaching art
to young emerging artists, visiting school assemblies, feigning interest in opening art galleries and other such nonsense,
on a daily basis. It’s driving me bonkers, dear Ned. All I want is to get me old job back and keep the prize money.
After all, I earned it.
Yours respectfully,
P.
Casso, Artist-in-Residence
Ned’s
reply:
Dear P. Casso,
I’ve seen your doodles
on YouTube. It’s shit so it’s only inevitable you have a great future in the contemporary arts. Bow
to your destiny, my friend, and stop complaining. Milk it for all you can; cushy art jobs are hard to come by.
Respectfully, Ned
