Following a friend’s advice, I brought a few paintings to a gallerist. He examined my work carefully, then declared:
— You see, the bourgeois—who is, of course, your main clientele—comes home exhausted after a long day of work. Well, they need to see things that are soothing. Your art is too aggressive.
I thanked him for his advice while admitting that I wouldn’t follow it, as my clientele was perhaps more that of the idle rentier—someone who needs to be shaken up…
As I began packing up my paintings, the gallerist offered to help. I thanked him, assuring him it wasn’t necessary. He handed me Mister Grrrrr; I took hold of it, and suddenly, we were both holding it together.
I applied a slight pull but felt resistance. I pulled a bit harder. The gallerist let go, and his right hand struck the corner of a table, sustaining a small cut. A drop of blood fell onto the bottom of the painting…
Like the nail-studded fetishes of the Democratic Republic of Congo, Mister Grrrrr has carried a magical charge ever since that day.