As a painter who subscribes to the school that a painting is done when it is good enough, I enjoyed this article about Harvey Pekar. I don't want to seem like a Pekar devotee, because I'm not. I've always been aware of him and his work has always been in my peripheral vision but I can't say I've read much of it. I doubt Harvey made a dollar off me. Maybe seventy-five cents in royalties. This, of course, is symptomatic of a problem that plagues artists of whatever medium: nobody will pony up the cash even when they are told its good. Not enough flash for mass distribution.
Tonight, I'll be watching the film that jumped off the library shelf the other day when Harvey Pekar passed to the great beyond. This isn't a New Orleans-specific post, or even one that goes back to my New England roots. I've never been to Cleveland, Ohio. I have been human though. Isn't that what art is about? Expressing and explaining the human condition. I like to think that most days. Those are the days I'm not just trying to churn something out to make a buck. Brother, can you spare a dime?
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