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"Everbody's a critic" Jeffrey thought as he smeared feces on the fresh canvas. No art gallery would consider his work for exhibition. He was lucky if they didn't laugh in his face, or, as they most frequently did, call security to usher him out. It wasn't entirely their fault. Most of them were old and set in their conventions. But they held the keys to the gate he had to pass in order to herald the New Movement. Pure art is organic, Jeffrey believed, and what could be more organic than human excrement? Besides, he saved a bundle on supplies. He even came up with a system for producing different colors of dung. So why couldn't people see what he saw? Why didn't they realize there was no better way to bond art and humanity?
Time will see me vindicated, Jeffrey assured himself as he gripped a turd, a particularly lovely shade of burnt sienna he attained by eating nothing but sun-dried tomatoes for three days. Someday, the laughing will become the sounds of hushed awe.
Date Written: March 04, 2005
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