Mental illness runs rampant in the art community. And it’s my job to deliver to you, the clueless layman, the airtight diagnosis for each artist – genius or madman? It can be thorny at times; how does one distinguish between the mindless scribblings of a homeless degenerate and the beautifully orchestrated chaos of Jackson Pollack? C’est ne pas une pipe, Magritte? Then what the fuck is it? Pardon my French. And so I labored long, hard hours over this piece from Boston school ground legend, D. What was his point of view? Where is the beginning, middle, end? What story was he telling? What connections was I – the viewer -- being asked to draw? There are leaps I am willing, no, obligated to take not as a critic but simply a viewer of art. The artist has earned that much. But for the life of me, I can’t find the thread between a turtle, mailbox, umbrella, swingset and what looks to be a cross between a Roman and Trojan soldier tapping a red fire hydrant with a reflex baton. This is pure madness. Perhaps D should check the mailbox with the upturned flag – he just might find a note from his local mental health facility.
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