When flying over large metropolitan areas I often think of art: art sales, that is. Especially at night, when all the lights are on. You just know families are gathered in the living room gazing at and being moved by the artwork on their walls. OK, they’re looking at the TV screen.
On one flight, I sat next to a television manufacturer’s rep (I don’t know what that is either). As we looked out the window, chugging the last of our beer before the final trash walk, we noticed the miles and miles of suburban homes. “Every one of those lights represents a customer,” my new friend informed me. I was jealous.
I want just 0.1% of them as customers, or less. What is on all those walls? Never mind, I really don’t want to know that. It can’t be pretty.
How many homes out there in America have an original piece of art on their walls? I’ve been in many artists’ homes, and more often than not the walls and bookcases are full of cherished art. That’s not my experience over the years in non-artist abodes. Many walls are barren or have a mirror or sconce or two. For that matter, how many are reading books or listening to classical music? The hypnotic television. The competition is ruthless.