Artistic Enigma

In the theatre of avant-garde art, stage left, a prodigy,
Bosom buddy with divine Muses – yet encaged, most ironically,
Adorning white-sheepskin berets, strokes vermillion over dusty easels,
Yet beneath the prism of her dealer, she is but a fable of mirth,
Bound in a relationship as convoluted as Cubist art.

Ah, the art-dealer, a peacock preened in pretense,
Pooh-poohs my Picasso, derides my Dali, mocks my Miro,
His eyes, twin Hyperborean vistas, unwarmed by the sun of creativity,
His tongue whipped with belittling barbs, sharp like Van Gogh’s lost ear,
Yet curiosity can’t kill this cat, we endure, we paint, we mime.

Strategically showcased in his gallery, amongst Warhol’s winking soup cans,
My soul’s outpour, delivery on display, nestled beside condescending placards,
His critique, a thin veneer hiding personal offense,
A wolfish smile speckled with shadows of ‘constructive feedback’,
His advice tinged with Eau de Condescension – a stinging scent.

No Sistine Chapel ceilings or pouting Mona Lisas from my brush,
Just defiant splashes of uncontained joy, frowns, chaos and cosmos,
He insists on sad clowns, weeping willows, but I paint tambourines,
Enchanted emus, dandy dandelions – I rebut with objects gleefully absurd,
My dear art-dealer, Picasso too put both eyes on the same side.

My paintbrush is a mirth-filled wand in an abracadabra world,
Thumb noses at tradition, sticking tongues out at the orthodox,
The connoisseur’s control encased in a veneer of benevolence,
Bewildered by my kaleidoscope cacophony, his chagrin – oh, my joy!
Tumbled down his posh pedestal, lost in a labyrinth of Ligeti’s pitchforks.

This Artistic Enigma, a jocular jest in the game of connoisseurs,
A rich tapestry of free-verse laughter within gilded frames of solemnity,
To my art-dealer, I remain an unfathomable mystery,
An unruly stain in a Picasso pantomime,
For I am the creator and he… is but the dealer.