I trust you will treat this
as you would any book
Accept that it is free.
Honor it as a gift.
Kelly Brooke Seagraves
ESSAY TOPICS FOR ART HISTORY PAPERS
I WILL NEVER WRITE BECAUSE NO TEACHER
WOULD EVER ISSUE THE ASSIGNMENT, AND
I DON'T GO TO SCHOOL ANYMORE ANYWAY:
- If you could use magic to step inside any painting, which painting would it be, and why? Explain what it would feel like to pass through chosen portal.
- Imagine you are the Mona Lisa. Ambiguously describe what's going on in your head without actually letting anyone know.
- Go ahead and let yourself embrace your distaste towards postmodern sculpture and performance. Veil your energy and release your hatred in only 73 - 510 pages ( single-spaced, 9pt font ).
- Many of today's young artists prey upon each other. Discuss this phenomenon with as few curse words as possible.
- How few artists are true visionaries, and how many artists are true idiots? On average, how often do true visionaries make it through their ordeal without falling victim to true idiots?
- Explain what Joseph Beuys forgot to explain.
- What is the difference between an artist using religious iconography for the sake of humor and an artist who is completely overrun with dark spirit energy? Compare and contrast.
- Explain why you feel bad when you feel bad. Explain how this torment is more artistic than any of the art you produce. Then show your essay to your significant other.
- Women can never be real artists. Explain why you believe this.
Then explain why you're an asshole. Then I'll explain you getting your skull smashed open with an animal's jawbone.
"You're going to die early," someone told me last night. So I shut up, stopped talking, and sacrificed another. And today, yet another, I'm sure.
The pearl-studded stone. Writing is the ugliest art form. It takes too long to see the big picture. There's never enough color. And those things are beside the point. Because we have poor eye sight. Astigmatism, keratoconus, intuition. And we're busy fumbling around in the dark. Even me. All I see now are the worthless, sentimental things I picked up along the wayside, where I slept when the weather was warm. The dumb bugs, the color yellow, eyes in the woods that were briefly eyes. We went down there to stare, and they were only tiny white flowers. Little blind swans. No one saw us. We never saw each other. No one saw at all. And at the count of three, you will open your eyes . . .
Stupid, stupid, stupid, mummble-mummble-mummble, inaudible curses and prayers. Hey, you, do you know where we are? I'm completely mother fucking lost out here. It's like I headed South when I was supposed to have been headed North, or some shit. Wrong turn, wrong plan, wrong map altogether. God ditched me in Chicago. Him and that black-haired, black-hearted son of a witch. And all the people I ask on dates are full of shit and scared stiff. Poor puppy. All scared of their own shadow. Ooga-booga. And I think there's something in my eye. Can you see it? It's an eyelash, I think. Fuck. Get it out.
If you're looking for confirmation, I'll go ahead and confirm. Yes. You guessed it. I'm really, really, really, really smart. God help me, because I sure as Hell can't help it. I can't help myself. When you spend your whole life inside, reading books and drawing pictures, you end up living the dream. I never once cheated. I was always true. And now, for the happy ending . . .
I wish you frog-faced freaks knew what was happening in your heads. It's fucking disgusting. Good thing there's a mop and a bucket. And good thing there's plenty of blood to spare. And good thing forgiveness is a big part of love. And good thing my heart, my heart, my heart. Is roaring. You may never again witness this natural wonder. Enjoy it while the world's still White.
I'm going to drink some water
Put the red back in my hair
Connect with my Fox totem
and go to fucking bed.
Good Night, America.