Yes, I’m up and I can’t sleep. I’m fighting the urge to write something nasty, brittle, and probably smugly superior, something caustic enough to keep those gay stereotypes alive and well. Not on this blog, but on a Thomas Kinkade gallery google listing that’s seducing me with the “review” button. Two people before me are gushing about how beautiful and uplifting his works are. I want to post a screed about the dangers of cutting back on art education in schools.
I’m planning a family trip to Cape May soon, so I know I’ll encounter the gallery. I’ve been there before. The employees are always nice as pie. There will be plenty of customer traffic. The walls are painted dark chocolate, to better bring out the colors of the paintings, of course.
My mother will consider buying one, as a surprise, for my birthday, so I have to make it exceptionally clear that this is kitsch and unwanted in my carefully decorated home. I mean, I love hating Kinkades, and who doesn’t? But not so much that I would want to look at it on my wall. Even the best jokes get tiresome eventually.
Of course, Mr. Kinkade offers an exciting option for my gallery-owner friends who might be frustrated in this economy.