Early last week, Essie walked down
the same section of Broadway between Houston and Prince that she always
traversed. It had been years and years of pounding the same old block. Her
footprints were probably engraved in the sidewalk under the disgusting mile-high scaffolding which never came down. It was a permanent fixture.
Except this one particular day, a
Tuesday, she walked past a table of Banksy's piled neatly on a black tablecloth.
Yes, she walked right past and then did a double take and returned to the table. Each
painting was wrapped in plastic wrap and had a round, pre-printed price tag attached
neatly in the right hand corner. Of course, her mind leapt to the Banksy prank
of the prior year; the one where he had anonymously set up tables in various NYC locations selling his original art at well
below auction prices. When the secret was revealed to the press, all who cared chuckled and kicked themselves for not
spying the originals right beneath their noses. So, as Banksy would have it, everyone
lost out on a big payout (this was his work of art in action).
The joke was on the world. Oh, Banksy!
Essie was one such person who felt she missed out, though
she was embarrassed to admit this until now.
Laid out before her were canvasses
of teddy bears with pistols, red heart balloons released by a silhouetted
couple on a hilltop, two Bobbies making out.
But the one that caught her eye and locked into her brain was a woman
vomiting hearts. She was expertly stenciled in black against a purplish-dirty graffiti prepared background. She was wearing a 60's style sleeveless mini-dress with her hair in a bun on top of her head. Her right hand was pressed horizontally against the wall supporting her leaned over self as the perfect red hearts spilled out of her mouth -not even reaching the
ground! The hearts started small and gradually increased in size. Her left
arm was awkwardly twisted behind her back and was useless except that it made
her pose more visually interesting. The best part was her sneakers:
With her legs slightly set apart, track shoes, like tiny hip slippers, were adorned with little black stripes. They were priceless.
Essie looked at the Banksy knock-off and knew she had to have it.
Love was like that; hearts vomiting
out of ones' mouth wasting all the goodness as regurgitated onto the sidewalk, with that last large heart suspended just perfectly above the ground. Just
before it went splat and made a sickening mess.
She was tempted to haggle with the guy who made the Banksy knock-offs, but somehow that felt wrong. Her entire concept of money, possession,
commerce and appropriation got all jumbled as she conversed with the man
(artist?) who had a MBA from Stern Business School at NYU. He was covered in
tattoos and told her of his Wall Street days. The days he was the Man behind
the desk at the Big Bank. But he busted loose and here he was, exercising his
First Amendment Right: selling Banksy knock-offs in Soho (without a vendor
permit, only a tax ID #).
She took out her credit card and
watched as he swiped it on his Square. Sixty-dollars, plus tax.
It now hangs on her office wall and
she loves her heart vomiting girl.
She loves her worthless Banksy.
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