about nayan.org
this website is the work of a fictional character
who masquerades as an artist, musician, and writer, and
enjoys referring to himself in the third person.
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© 2006
nayan enterprises
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the artist
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so the other day i am (as i often am) sitting at a bar, sipping a sapphire martini (as opposed to the vodka variety imbibed only by dilletantes), minding my own business (which is to say, contemplating the happy descent of the feminine waistline with every passing season), when the inebriate next to me--eager to disseminate his drunken wisdom--decides to strike up a conversation.
"i'm an artist," he claims, and embarks on an exposition of his aesthetic philosophy.
now, i must confess to have not an ounce of such lofty inclinations. my interest in art extends only to those depictions of the female form unfettered by such mundane considerations as clothing, preferably in poses that promise the most physical satisfaction with the least emotional effort. but unable to shake him off, and unwilling to relinquish either my drink or my vantage point, i listen with some annoyance.
gorgeous, living breathing works of art saunter by, gently swaying their hips, feigning ignorance of the critical acclaim evoked by their exposed navels.
and as i add to my mental pallette the hues of their undergarments (which are in plain view, rising triumphantly above the aforementioned waistlines), i am baffled by this self-proclaimed artist who, oblivious to these moving sculptures, would rather rhapsodize over the curves of a botticelli, compare the relative merits of van gogh and gaugin, picasso and mattise, than comment on a passing "tiffany" or "veronica" (as all attractive women seem to be called nowadays).
finally, somewhere in the middle of an oration on "the dual nature of culture" (during which all sorts of names from clifford geertz to jacques lacan are invoked with casual familiarity), i accost him with "so what kind of artist are you anyway?"
after a pause, i offer: "do you paint? sketch? are you a sculptor? performing arts, perhaps?" to each he shakes his head.
i have heard somewhere that artists do not like their work to be reduced to any particular medium of expression. but by now i'm exasperated: "so what is it exactly that you do?"
after another long silence, he starts, "i sit, i drink," then narrowing his eyes in a feat of great concentration, whispers, "i imagine."
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