THE ART OF ALAN DUNN…AND THE RAVINGS OF SOME ART DUDE
THE WORDS WRITTEN HERE HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH ALAN DUNN’S ART. I LOVE HIS STUFF. IT’S UNPRETENTIOUS. IT’S FUN. IT’S SOMETHING I WOULD BE PROUD TO HANG ON MY WALL. …AND A LOT OF PEOPLE JUST WON’T GET IT. WHICH REMINDS ME OF THIS INSANE ASSHOLE WHO QUESTIONED MY COVER ART FOR THE LAST ISSUE OF PINK EYE. -IAN P.E.
“Is that art!!!???” “What does that mean!!!???” “Can you tell me!!!???” “You can’t tell me, can you!!!???”
The quotes of this crazy guy named George, who I had the unfortunate opportunity to run into while dropping off some copies of Pink Eye down in Akron’s Highland Square (a.k.a. – the triangle of weirdness).
I grabbed a drink at the Matinee while waiting for a friend to arrive. This dude proclaimed – “I used to be the best artist in Cleveland, I showed at all the big galleries…they wrote articles in The Scene about me”. He bought me a shot and convinced me to come to his house to check out his art. I did.
Anyways…this guy owns this huge house, with a cute little lady-friend sitting quietly in the kitchen…all the while this guy’s working up his bravado. He shows me his art…”yeah, looks good” – but good is not good enough for the “best artist in Cleveland”. Dude is fully on top of the soapbox by now. Thumping my chest, telling me I just don’t understand…etc. “What credentials do YOU have!!!???…to be a critic” – he asks, to which I reply – “I never said I was a critic, you fucking freak.”
So, I escaped the loony mansion and gave a copy of the zine to the guy – who was now ranting about how art was this street under the city light…and can’t I see that? I could, and told him so. But the cover, he didn’t like my cover art (a pink pyramid with the glowing “all seeing eye” of Free Mason Symbolics – only with conjunctivitis. Crazy George did not like my art – it was shallow.
I guess he was looking for the meaning of life, for the most beautiful representation of the world done with taste and creativity, a reflection of the innate beauty of the human soul…or maybe he just didn’t like any art which he did not make himself. Reality was his, and based on the way he’d been stepping over all the boundaries of interpersonal respect for a half hour by then, my reality was something less than his…He was THE ARTIST.
