L'ARTIST MIOP





In Parise the Ifell towers over everything, and money women work the streets with blue umbrellamps, lurking for deployment in the mister shadells of the night.  For many, this is a wale of  life, and one should therefore be not alarmed by cows of  it.  Anyways, they have locks of ancestral support, these treatwalkers.


In the mist of midlafternoon, a causal passerbile can hear the cherry vices of countless children of numbers... Fraila Jackal, Fraila Jackal; gourmet blue, gourmet blue.... And farthing up the street, eyespy the numble fingers of the coming fruit vandal, who displates his wheres on varicose stands of sort, draping several in the progress.  Thank heathen for vandals; fruits are very popular in Parise.  The belles of Shant Marry toll throut the city, like anallygous bridge ... of life and dearth.  Short peasants patronice the African Store for Lord Jim Beaming, needles, pots, and arthur othicles.  And life rezooms with competitive sanctimony and esprit de corruption.


In the crowded apartyments of a rutsick buildung, the squalor of meny demented tennys can be herd over the domestic cackle of an equinine landlady, who contenders with garrulousy neighbirds for house rates as she lounges in a mangy boisterous housecoat on the stoop of the place.


                           
2



High uppity in the dust-besmothered stillnest of a muffled tomb, a lonely painter sets about the exploitation of  temperametal emotions in the artmusfare of  his uninspiraling attic.  One intersecting thing abound Picatsup, this artist of subject, was that he nevever used moron than one color.  He was stuck, bentirely upon ascertain shade, tent, and hew of this color which, as a martyr of  faction, was white.  Zinc white, chalk white, white white -- anykind off white, long as it was white.


Cinch he was so grate with this color, manytimes well-numb art afficionados would come upto him to requestion his addvice on their snowscenes.  Prey tell me, Picatsup, how is it that you are a man of such supurple artitsick ability? they would ask, with open moths and dumbfounded facials.  Well, I'll tell you, Picatsup would say, It's like this: you take an imbecilinder mother, and a color-blind, concretin father, and you're bound to wind up with a byproduct as a son -- of which I am -- a brilliant painter; it's as easel as that.  I see it all now, they would say, somewant enlightened.


Not only did glacious men of art come to see the great painter, Picatsup was also visiterd by ladies of Business and gents of  Ignominy.  Popular sort, he was.  But all his guests seemed to have the same obnoscus intrigue about the man who only panted in white.  Why do you paint onerously in white? they wud all ask, with inquisitive persisters.


              
3




Funny you should ask that, he replenished, as if  to repair them for some lengthy ditchcourse.  And then he told them, with professional reserve and tactful candor: I am what you would call a true artist -- I paint only what I see, and that as I see it.  If  people and events were canvassically symbolized by a myriad colors, and painted as they appear in life, as a complete, combined, confused whole, the result would be a monotonous gray.  And gray, as we all know, is merely a mixture of  white and black, symbolizing purity-chastity-good and evil-vice-bad, respectively.  Hence, in essence, there are really only two significant colors.  So why should one settle for black, when he can have white?