If everyone were an artist

In Paris I wonder how anyone goes to work so nonchalantly, how the people cannot marvel in the beauty of their city, and why they are not all artists. I traveled to Paris and stayed for only six days. It has been called a city of the eye, everywhere I go I see beauty. The pastel colors of the buildings along the Seine draw my eyes up to the sky which is pale gray and filled with clouds. I watch the clouds momentarily, as I sit on the tip of Pont-Neuf relaxing. I watch as the Seine rolls towards me and snap a couple photos. I find it impossible that anything gets done in this city. I imagine everyone here constantly calling-in to work and sitting along the Seine, sketching the beautiful sometimes bare-breasted women as they sit and take in the sun. I think about what would happen to the world if everyone was an artist. The President would show up an hour late to his meeting with the leader of Iran because of a sudden inspiration the night before, which kept him awake until 8 in the morning frantically sketching strange vibrant pictures of a world on-fire, and then slept his traditional 8 hours since all great artists need their rest and arrived when he got there, as brilliant artists do. Instead of arguing over world domination, and neo-imperialism government leaders would fight over possession of art-works. France would be assaulted by diplomats seeking to regain their nations prized pieces, the Louvre would become the victim of terrorist attacks. Fundamentalists would not pursue Islam but instead classicism and deface all non-classical works, with the exception of only the best neoclassical works. Most of the bombs planted by the neoclassical fundamentalists would not explode, apparently the bomb-maker was more interested in a pleasing aesthetic, and could not bear the restrictions of traditional chemistry. This would all be for the best since the bomb was intended to be flushed down a toilet, but the toilet was out of order and the plumber was photographing it, focused on capturing this powerful image of bassesse, the toilet overflowing with shit, the plumber adjusting his shutter-speed and the lighting in order to fully capture the awfulness of the scene instead of repairing the toilet. Had the bomb exploded the terrorist would have been picked up by an ambulance which would arrive somewhat late, due to the driver taking the most scenic route and when he arrived the surgeons would first do a couple preliminary sketches of what the surgery would look like just to get a good handle on the line and to make sure the surgery was somewhat aesthetically pleasing or even better, had an allegorical or perhaps biographic aspect to it. Perhaps the terrorist had blown open the left side of his belly, in this sort of case a surgeon could take two entirely different routes. He could pursue either an asymmetric approach or a symmetrical one. In the first case the surgeon would repair the patient's internal organs as best he could but when sewing him up he would make sure to draw attention to his work, possibly signing his name in the skin of the patient in order to leave no doubt to the provenance of the piece, the second possibility would be similar aside from the fact that the artist would needlessly stitch up the right side of the terrorist's belly as well, and then work from there perhaps pursuing further unnecessary surgery within the space between the two stitchings. The stitchings themselves might have a great degree of patternization, or perhaps call attention to various idiosyncracies of the patient's body. After surgery, the patient would rest in the hospital. He would be fed meals and taken care of. Depending on the cook, the food might be very uneven but at times spectacular, as is the case in the oeuvres of many of the great artists, or perhaps a bit more cautious at times reaching a pinnacle and then slowly ascending again to another peak. Sometimes breakfast would be standard-fare just so the cook could ensure he still had the basics down, but other times the cook would restrict himself to preparing a meal made solely of carrots, he would display a great appreciation for the nuances between one carrot and another, seeking to show a wide variety of carrots and emphasizing their own uniqueness. Some meals would seem to have a particular theme, such as if the patient were to be fed a meal of grapes, pomegranates, and snake served in a bowl with trees, and a naked man and woman engraved into it. Other meals would seem to have absolutely no method to them, and be barely edible, blackberries, potatoes, salmon, and syrup might be described by the chef as a meal created to illustrate the chaotic nature of life and challenge the viewer, or eater's preconceived notions of what a meal was. Aside from the food, the terrorist was somewhat uncomfortable with being sketched at all times by the nursing staff. He would step out of the shower and be told to hold that pose, or take a step back into the sun-light. The trial would go on almost indefinitely with the lawyers interested more in creating moving speeches of infinite length, rattling on and on about the human condition, their heartaches, the battle raging within even the most banal and acceptable citizens, stopping at nothing creating arguments of poetic worth with little attention to logic which would be dismissed as a modernist approach to argumentation which has been completely outdated. Needlessly arguing logically would be a sure-fire way to turn the jury against their client, the jury was not there to determine right or wrong but whether the law was in fact interfering with the development and expression of a nascent artist. Only the bare minimum of law would be upheld, no rape, no murder, well except in certain cases, but public nudity would be encouraged, obesity would be popular only in baroque areas, many facets of life would become greatly complicated. Setting an appointment with your dentist could quickly become impossible: “Hello, Doctor, I'd like to come in for a cleaning on Tuesday if you have any openings.”
“Sorry, I can't just force myself to work, I need inspiration.” “My teeth hurt!” “I work on my own terms sir, I am not a simpleton, my work is my life!” Eventually, your dentist might bust through your door perhaps at 2 am as his muse struck him and moved him to finally clean your teeth. The tooth cleaning would go quite well, but perhaps he becomes inspired by your left bicuspit and decides to curve it into your mouth or outwards, arguing that the tooth has become symbolic of the struggle for individuality in a highly commodified culture. Your dental records or any other medical records would include bizarre anecdotes concerning your injuries or allergies, “Don is allergic to amoxicillin and patronizing women, not to mention he has a general distaste for authority and leans toward anarchy. This could stem from an overbearing mother and a father who was a dolt and preferred Matisse to Picasso to give an idea of how out of touch he was...Don has actually never been an alcoholic but having become a writer we felt it would only be appropriate if he followed in the great footsteps of Faulkner and Hemingway, if not in reality then at least in our report.”
“Jeremy's fifth heart bypass surgery is really no surprise to me as a surgeon or as a human being. His heart is backed up completely, he expresses hardly anything in his sterile modern work, and his relationship with his children is completely stilted. While they are here to check on them, there really appears to be little true concern, simply an ersatz of compassion.” This is of course because neither of Jeremy's children, Marvin or Melanie felt they could adequately express their feelings to complete strangers so they thought best to exaggerate and do their best imitation of B rate stage actors, their performance piece mimics the way in which the media creates a spectacle out of death and removes compassion from it. Unfortunately, everyone is wrapped up with their own creations and can barely notice their inventive performance, perhaps there would be a huge shortage of audience for all these would be Mollieres and Degas. Eventually art would reach a point where it was so confrontational that even the apathetic, or self-interested artists would have to react to it. Construction workers would drop wrecking balls from 40 stories high as commentary on the daunting nature of mortality and seemingly random acts of fate.