Stella writes poems and short stories and has published a selection of these on HubPages.
Which Way Up Is This Painting Supposed to Be?
His paintings looked like they'd been painted by toddlers. You couldn’t tell which way up they were supposed to be or what the subject was and his ghastly green sunsets all looked the same.
Everyone ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ at the gallery; it was just like: ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes.’ No one had the heart to tell the truth. But he called it art and he was the artist and that was what mattered.
'My Five-Year-Old Grand-kid Could've Done That!'
‘Hmmmph!’ sighed Mrs Caraway, the cleaner. For a start, she wasn't the least impressed with any of the paintings on display: 'My five-year-old grand kid could have done that!' She'd often exclaim as she stood back, hands on her hips bemused by the idiocy of it all.
When she surveyed the untidy heap scattered around the gallery on the morning of the exhibition, there was even more for her to tut-tut about. ‘Darn school kids have been here and left all their mess behind.’
She attempted to clear a collection of coke cans mysteriously strung together along with some unidentifiable sticky stuff congealed into a solid mass.
A metallic clang resounded as she bashed away at the offending debris with her broom.
‘Stop!’ came a cry from the doorway, ‘that’s my exhibit!’
‘You call that art? It’s nothing but a load of old bottle tops, tin cans and bits of plastic.'
The artist’s face became as ashen as his sunsets; he appeared as if he'd snatch the broom out of her hands and sweep her towards the doorway with it. ‘It was my tin can dinosaur - a Tincanosaurus Rex - it must have fallen to pieces in the night. I should have used stronger string. What am I going to do now? It was my pièce de résistance!’
‘Piece of rubbish, more like.’
The seeds of truth were sown.
‘Come and help me put this in my cleaning cart. Is there another of your ‘works of art’ somewhere?’
‘Err, no - unless you’d allow me to improvise.’
Mrs Caraway agreed and they both managed to complete their task just before opening time.
The broom stuck out of the cart like the gun on a tank; together with a majestic looking mop, dusters were draped flag-like over the handles and both agreed that mounted on its very own plinth with the lights positioned at the best possible angle, the cart made a fine exhibit.
He called it art and so did Mrs Caraway - that was what mattered and it was a state of the art cleaning cart, after all.
Still Don't Know? Neither do I!
Don't Be An art Failure! Learn How to Paint!
© 2015 Stella Kaye