It seems like a fairly easy thing to make money off doesn’t it, the auld abstract art. I mean any old fool can paint his fist and beat it off a piece of cloth and claim its an artistic rendering of anger. Sure any time you feel a bit up or down you could pick a few colours and lay into a canvas, in reality it’s a load of nonsensical stripes on a white background but if you make up a half-decent backstory the “connoisseurs” will gobble it up.
Imagine the following in a condescending South Dublin accent: “Ya I came home from the local bistro after a few strawberry daquiris and I felt a bit down so I picked up my paint palette and laid my emotions bare on the canvas”, the delusional art dealers love that sort of rubbish. In reality it’s probably a wall that he fired a bucket of blue and red paint at, easy money.
If I wore a cravat and a sideways beret, I could probably stick a brush between my toes, draw a vague imitation of a cat and tell the potential buyers that it’s an artistic rendering of gender in animal form. What I mean by that is that it could be a cat, a dog or a rocket ship, the same way I could decide to identify as a gender-neutral post box. It’s all about your own perspective, it’d make millions.
The only drawback to this is that I’d have to be dead before I start making any real money, but I’m sure I could find a workaround. I’ll bang out 20 or 30 paintings and leave a little description of each of them and sell them on for a reasonable amount, a few grand each maybe. The next step is to fake my death, something spectacular to get everyone’s attention would be best, a bungee jumping accident in Peru maybe, into a deep crevice where the body will never be found. In reality I’ll be sipping mojitos somewhere in the Caribbean, watching on as everywhere mourns the death of a great artist and the paintings start selling for millions, with a royalty from each going into a “family fund” that a certain Martin Kenny in Antigua has access to.
It’s a fool proof plan if you ask me.