Feb 28, 2005

Mad dog

The little Ann Arbor art museum has on a show of 20th century art. More of a montage, really, than a show. It was very scattered, an eclectic assortment of Picasso's and second-name abstracts where any sense movement of 20th century art is missing and garishly supplemented back in with contextless posterboard quotes that sound pompous and have a look of get it? get it?

A Japanese family was laughing and wisecracking at their side of a cell phone conversation while one of the women video taped her husband standing still between two paintings.

There was a little black and white drawing of a dog, done by a Mexian artist contemporary to Diego Rivera. He might have been a muralist. I don't know and I don't remember his name. The dog's coming at you leaning in a lunge at the end of his chain. He's teeth are out, barking and spitting. He's a crossbreed, a matted-hair mutt, a cur and his eyes are rolling wildly out of sync with the left eye dialated to a dot rolling up and the right staring straight and mean.

I hate dogs. Mostly because of dogs like this one mad, enrarged with violence, chain-pulling fence-jumping ghetto dogs always mean. Because of country dogs killing to kill kill for the feel of blood. Bad tempered foul mooded cur sons of canines always snarling, always wanting to bite.

I hate dogs, which they know and while you're telling me to pet your pet and telling your pet it's okay he's a friend he goes barking into a low throat growl as old as emnity and the hair on the back of my neck rises.

Still, I felt like that dog. I felt cranky, in a bad temper foul mood of blood, teeth, spittle and mad rolling eyes. We were two of a kind that would have killed each other, given the chance.