Flowers sell. And this is what I’m realizing. Having just paid $135 to the Brickbottom Artists Association to hawk a pile of amatuer photographs at the 2004 Brickbottom Open Studios in November, I’m suddenly very sensitive to what sells and what doesn’t.

If I’m to break even in this show, I need to sell out. I need to sell the fuck out in the most unimaginative ways possible. I’m talking sunflowers, pumpkins, snow-capped mountains, and the cutest fucking New England foliage photos you’ve ever seen. Whatever it takes. Huge oak trees, old stone walls, picket fences, a quaint rusty sign by the highway. Wicker baskets. I’m putting out all the stops, muthafuckahs.

Let me tell you about the colors. They are going to be bright and vivid as all hell. These colors don’t exist in the real world, because the real world is dark and grim and full of shit. That’s why my photographs will sell: they’ll tap the deepest ideals and hopes you had before time and sun and war dulled them down. They’ll hit you over the head like a 95 load box of Tide. The 500 other artists’ work may look pale and interesting, but pale and interesting won’t sell shit. My photos will jump off the fucking walls like a cheetah. Maybe I’ll even have some cheetahs in them. I’ll definitely have monkeys. I’ll be your goddamn monkey if I can get out of it with my hundred-and-thirty-five bucks back.

And I’ll tell you a secret, too. Just so you know. There’s no room for subtlety in this art show. No room for nuance—I don’t have time for that and neither do you. You’re too busy shopping, maundering around looking for a little hope in this dark age. After this, if you don’t buy anything here, you’re off to Wal-Mart next where they probably have better photographs in better frames for a lot cheaper than what I’m selling.