“Hitler applied to an art school when he was 18. Vienna Academy of Art rejected his application, twice. His drawings which he presented as evidence of his ability, were rejected as they had too few people in them. The examining board did not want just another landscape artist.”
Bring me a canvas
The size of a continent. Give me red, blue,
and a neutral hue of yellow too,
Heir teacher—mother, it’s not my nature
to mind the borders. I am the World’s Worst 2nd
grader, I will scribble and scramble as I please.
No Heir Chamberlain, I cannot
cannot appease this call to squeeze
the color out of the crayon into fluid, liquid paint.
Mother, look. What do you think?
Finger painting is Mein Kampf
when I paint facial hair. I want a bushy beard
like those old Prussian Emperor’s but
there is only enough black paint left
for a square above my upper lip.
I am a big boy now. I can mark the borders now.
Look mother, look Heir teacher! Behold
the buildings I created at the tip of my
pencil—the straight, symmetrical marble columns
of my palaces, grand arches, and coliseums
fit for Olympians—all of them in complete order.
Don’t mind the people, they are just scribbles,
like smoke rising from a furnace. This paper race is
easy to erase. Their only function is to lead the eye to my
focal point by an outstretched arm lifted in awe.
No more pencils, give me brushes
I am the Jackson Pollock of nations.
Sliding a trail of axis-crimson
paint behind my armored bicycle,
and blitzkrieg pedal across the canvas.
The white of the canvas is all but gone.
The judges turn in shock.
How can fools understand
My art? Pure inspiration these critics
And officials call grotesque. Blind
Fools they be, misplacing ribbons and praise
To impure races. I will show them better days.
I’ll paint my heart upon the world’s face, that beats
and beats uncaged. All my dreams and all my rage
and talent that is in my kindergarten kingdom.