Apparently the main drag is the wrong place for street art.
I had big plans for this piece but its destiny was to fall short of the mark.
By the time I realized that my enraptured audience was a police officer and not the two cute girls who were there a minute ago, he was already recording me on video.
I wish I had a copy of THAT footage.
As usual he tried to get a confession by asking me, “What are you doing here?”
I gave him a full promotional message instead, smiling, pointing out my work, and pretending I was on TV.
“Oh, I am making some art, it is a gift for the city, I only use chalk so it does not damage anything, and the spring weather will clean it away in only two or three days.”
My loving and gregarious open-ness of course inspired a sympathetic response from the uniformed authority.
Together we enjoyed several minutes of intimate sharing, where the officer inspected my ID, got my digits, took very careful notation of everything, and leaned in close to whisper his secrets into my ear.
“You are finished now,”
he told me,
“You can not paint all over the city without permission.”
Flutter flutter flutter beats my heart…
To think, now I am famous with the city administration.
They love me; this is clear. They show their love by lavishing me with the undivided attention of a salaried employee! What luxury! I would not trade this precious moment for all the boxes of chocolates in the world.
To think… for nearly 30 minutes the local officials could find nothing more important to do than devote themselves to watching me, using state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, turning me into REAL LIVE PERSON OF INTEREST,
and not only that,
but recording my intentionally temporary efforts, immortalizing them for posterity in a brave attempt to bypass the creeping hands of TIME,
those with an unbreakable grip that devours the iron-clad works of genius and idiocracy alike.
What a patron. How unselfish! I blow kisses to the entire city administration which has given me the gift of attention, focusing the laser-beam of their unlimited municipal eye on me, multiplying the dynamics of my work a thousand-fold, all paid for by the precious resources of the nation’s capital.
If this is the worst crime to occur on a Monday evening, I am forced to wonder if the criminals and degenerates of the area might not somehow be able to ramp up their nefarious black corrupt evil and despicably unholy activities, not just for their own personal advancement, but also to ensure that local law enforcement doesn’t wither away and die of boredom & neglect.
I mean, think of all those bullets and nobody to blast? An empty jail is the sign of an empty tax coffer.
notes: if you look closely at the columns on the front of the National Museum you can see lighter patches where bullet holes were plastered over. The flower shot is from decorative bushes growing around back of the museum where the junkies shoot drugs and drop dirty needles constantly. Don’t ask me why they are refused the loving adoration of les gens d’armes. Maybe because they naturally exist just beyond the limits of tourists’ auto-focus. Probably that.
kudos: thanks to the French government, the entire EU railway network including but not limited to Schengen zone countries, Ukrainian Sonja, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Louvre Museum, for joining their efforts and supplying me with the oversized memorial collector’s coin which I used to make all these little circles.
End note: no police officers were harmed during the making of this post.