So I'm walking home, nearing the Paramount Theater, and I hear a fellow pounding an accordion. Raspy voice, absurd quick staccato. Old guy. And I think to myself, "Huh, that's just like what I'd imagine Gregory Blackstock must have looked like, playing his accordion outside the Kingdome to raise money for trips to amusement parks--before he became a nationally acclaimed outsider artist." But it is Gregory Blackstock--singing a maddening number called "Beep Beep" and unnerving the children in their fancy theater coats. And I'm stunned: the fellow has been fetishized as a artistic savant--I must admit my love for his work is in part due to my fascination with savants, his drawing sell for thousands of dollars now, he's got a fricken' book out... Even Comme des Motherfucking Garçons has used his illustrations in one of its collections--and he's singing and playing accordion outside the Paramount, and kinda scaring folks, and I just feel like I found the golden ticket in my Wonka bar because nobody else seems to understand why this is so great.
I think of saying something--"Hey guys, this is a very famous artist! Playing accordion! And frightening you!" Some guy asks him for directions, then overhears me as I beam a little too effusively over his drawings. The asker looked back, curious, confused, as I say this (for all appearances) mentally disabled accordion-busker, "I'm such a fan of your drawings! When are you showing again? I've purchased your book!" And part of this is the pleasure of secret knowledge and part of this is the idiocy inherent in systems of fame--because Blackstock is a fucking rock star. And he's playing his accordion for free. Outside of a theatrical production costing between $20 and $75 for admission, "not including fees." (Coming next month: Bob the Builder--Live!)
Nothing wrong with folks making a buck on spreading beauty around, but I'm continually struck by how much more beauty comes from the quiet and the sidelined and the unexposed. It seems that the more our tastes are culled and directed by mass-market forces, the more anemic they become.
