“Thanks for calling. I think it’s just bad cold but I don’t think you should come by, you know, just in case. I do appreciate the soup idea.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, sure as shit. I’ll just lie here in my many layers like a Joseph Beuys sculpture.”
“Joseph Boyz?”
“B-E-U-Y-S, first name probably pronounced Yosef, in his native language. He was a German sculptor. Hold on a sec, I’m gonna switch my phone to my other hand.”
“Oh, another one of them German artists, aye? I feel the gray clouds of despair wrapping around my head like a wet blanket.”
“Funny. He actually made a lot of things out of fat and felt, and that’s what it feels like under this pile of wool. In fact, I’m the fat and felt part, since felt is hair. The other part I think is maybe obvious.”
“Geeze, you mean art made out fat and felt? Why?”
“The story goes, and some people say that it was just a story, that he was a bomber pilot during the war, and was shot down a few times, and the last time he was pretty much left for dead. But some nomadic Tartars found him and wrapped him up in fat and felt, to keep him alive, and dragged him around for a while.”
“Hmm… Right.”
“Yeah. And eventually the German army found him and took him back to their hospital. But he supposedly had gone through some interesting psychological changes during that time. Being close to dead and all, and with these strange people who don’t even speak your language. Again, there’s argument that this may all have been a story he made up to sell art.”
“Whoa, that’s a pretty fucking crazy story. Do you think it’s true? The near dead thing, the mysterious ‘other people.’ Another fucking self-mythologizing artist, more likely, just finding a way to promote himself.”
“I think he also wanted to promote some other stuff. I’ve always liked some of his ideas, like how everyone is an artist. But he also got very spiritual, in a kind of witchcrafty, shamanic way. I think after the Tartars, he got interested in the mysteries of more indigenous people, or maybe the pre-christian people of northern Europe, when they were more like people of color, perhaps. Even though he claimed to be christian. A odd kind of christian, obviously.”
“You mean, Vikings and shit? Celts? I don’t think everybody’s an artist, I’m certainly not an artist. Not like you. I mean, I do some memes stuff on Instagram, but that’s not…”
“What he meant was that everyone is an artist because we have an endless number of problems we have to solve just to survive, and every one of our occupations, our jobs are like that. We are always creating something, sort of a continual work-in-progress, a social sculpture that we all participate in. Hold on a second, I’m gonna switch my phone back to the other hand. It’s kind of awkward talking like this in a horizontal position.”
“Sure. Half these chats we have end up feeling like a lecture, you know. I guess that’s the price one pays for having an art history girlfriend. When do I get a chance to see you?”
“Let’s see how things go by the end of the week.”
“Okay, you don’t think you’re part of the pandemic, do you?”
“We’re all part of the pandemic, deary. We’re just not all sick. I don’t think I have that specific strain of corona virus, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. Just worried about you, love.”
“Thank you sweetie.”
“I’ve been Googling this guy – there’s this picture of him at the MoMA with a coyote. What the fuck. And what’s this thing with the metallic looking mask and the rabbit?”
“Hare.”
“What a fucking weirdo.”
“Yeah.”
“There’s also this video – I’ve got to watch this. It’s gotta be golden. He’s in his farmer suit and the hat, singing in a punk band or something. I’ll save it for later.”
“One last thing about him, and then I’m gonna have to go back to sleep. And I think you’re going to like this part. He had this concept he called Kunst is – he used an equal sign – Kapital.”
“What? Say that again?”
“It’s German for art is capital. He had this idea that true capital isn’t what the owners say it is, but it’s art, the art you make as an artist, solving your everyday problems. In other words, you are the owner of your art, which is the true capital of the world’s economy. Am I saying it right? I’m kind of confusing myself.”
“I think I hear you loud and clear, love. That’s beautiful. You mean, everything belongs to all of us, because we’re living in this system doing stuff.”
“I think that’s kind of what he meant.”
“Shit. That’s a right idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”