The Undersecretary of Art
Dreamed 2022/2/13 by Wayan
I've been drafted by the Feds as the Under-Secretary for the Arts--the Secretary's a political appointee, but I'm the background workhorse who actually disburses all those controversial grants. I'm intimidated; I just don't fit that Washingtonian crowd--a bunch of courtiers all striving to climb, and sharing a worldview I can't believe in. I mean... I see auras. I have shamanic dreams telling me the future. I'm autistic; can't look these normals in the eye, or bear their relentless smiles, backstabbing, snobbery and tribalism.
They--ever so politely, ever so sensibly, ever so forgetful when it comes to asking my permission--move all my weird, uncouth dream-comics off my work desk to a corner shelf by an open window, leaving them exposed to sun-fading and water-staining. With the best of motives, of course: they're making room for the sensible and realistic paperwork I'll now be signing--to fund art proposals that are socially uplifting, wholesome, sane--unlike mine.
I do have room on my bare office walls to make some personal statements. That's traditional, so they can't deny me. So I look through my recent art. I find three portraits, each over a meter wide or tall, in colored chalk and pastel, of creatures in my dreams--unicorn and feline people. Erotic portraits. A flirty standing pose, a rearing action sketch, a lounging odalisque. Each in a different predominant color, they'd simultaneously contrast, harmonize--and offend the Suits.
Life-size furry erotic dreams. Do I dare to hang THOSE on the wall?
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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