In a town filled with insistent noise, most of which is for advertising one thing or another that will alleviate one pain or cure the mundane. The sound is deafening at times, with ones senses being overwhelmed by the over the top three ring nature of whatever is the latest meme or freak show. Why just yesterday I came across a sales person that wished to wash my shoes with his soap, claiming that if it was “Good enough for Jesus to do, I should as well…” My response was more along the lines that ‘I liked my shoes the way they were, thank you very much.’ And with that I left the pious sales man to find someone elses shoes, windows, concrete, or souls to wash.
But after leaving, I was reeling from the fumes of the encounter and chemicals. What was the pitch? That we are all essentially dirty, and a good non toxic cleaner is all that we need to clear things up. If this is the case, then perhaps he will never be without a customer, never have enough time to wash the feet of anyone that will allow it. It seems that for all the soap that may exist in the world, there will always be a spot that needs removing, a blemish of imperfection to correct.
After a nights sleep, the morning sunshine seemed to lead me to a very different question. The question had more to do with the dirt than the soap. Isn’t everything that is done within art about the stain, the blemish that is seen by our own eyes, manifesting into work that others can share in. Who is the decider of what is clean, and that which is dirty?
Maybe the next time I come across the hunger artist at the end of the freeway off ramp, I will ask them. Perhaps they will have an answer.