Our occasional series wherein an artist attempts to persuade us that they are the greatest artist that ever lived.
Salsa Blower writes…
I have often pondered, in the quiet, contemplative moments between applying layers of burnt umber and Googling “what exactly is burnt umber,” whether I am, in fact, the greatest artist that has ever lived. The thought occurs to me not out of arrogance, you understand, but as a natural consequence of living with my own work. One cannot repeatedly behold one’s own genius without, eventually, asking the obvious question.
I realise such a claim demands evidence. Michelangelo had the Sistine Chapel. I have Over-flowing Laundry Basket (Mixed Media). Van Gogh had Starry Night. I have Starbar Bite, a moody triptych rendered entirely in confectionary.
But let us not get bogged down in comparison. Greatness, after all, is not about fame or sales or whether your work has ever been accepted into a major public collection (though if anyone from the Tate is reading this: my phone is very much operational). Greatness lies in vision. In risk. In applying gesso to a perfectly good toaster and calling it a comment on fast food.
What makes me the greatest? Let me count the ways.
Firstly, I have mastered every medium I have ever encountered, often within minutes of encountering it. Oils, acrylics, tempera, cement, chutney—each has bowed to my will, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes immediately after I have misunderstood its basic properties.
Secondly, my work defies categorisation. Critics have tried, of course. One described my recent solo show as “a compelling argument for stricter curatorial standards.” Another called it “like Duchamp, but angrier and with more taxidermy.” I wear these reviews as badges of honour. Genius is rarely understood in its own time. (Though I would prefer it if people stopped using the word “concerning.”)
Thirdly, and this is crucial: I suffer. Not in the traditional artistic sense (I’m very well-fed, thank you), but in the way only someone burdened with vast creative power can. I see beauty where others do not. I see tragedy in a half-eaten Scotch egg. I once wept over a badly drawn horse in a children’s colouring book.
In short, I bring depth where there is shallowness, complexity where there is comfort, and often glitter where there should really be none.
Of course, greatness is rarely rewarded in real time. My last open studio had three attendees, one of whom was lost and the other two were there for the biscuits. But posterity will understand. One day, long after I am gone (or, ideally, just after I’ve signed with a better gallery), people will look at my work and say, “Ah yes, this is what it means to be truly, unapologetically misunderstood.”
Am I the greatest artist that ever lived? The question remains open. But until the Louvre returns my emails or the Royal Academy stops returning my parcels unopened, I shall continue to create with the full, blinding certainty of a man who once glued a pomegranate to a mirror and titled it Self-Portrait.
Because if that isn’t greatness, I honestly don’t know what is.