c. 20:30 on Wednesday night I had intended to fulfill a longstanding obligation to paint a plaster, fist-sized bust of Wolfgang A. Mozart some shade of green. I’ve been carrying around this bust for about a month now, an inescapable, tawdry specter in my day-to-day life. I purchased the bust with the intent of destroying it that same day on the sidewalk. I suppose this urge stemmed from some mix of the vulnerable material of the bust and animosity towards the art form writ large.
Unfortunately (and a bit predictably), as a double Pisces, my nonsensical romanticism got the best of me and I kept it. After all, why did this bust deserve such a harsh end just because it is made of a fragile material? I’ve been thinking about sentimental hierarchies in relation to material construction recently, and maybe it’s just time to abandon all ethics and come to the conclusion that it is now time to paint the bust then smash it into sacrilegious, bite-sized pieces. Mozart will not be a martyr, and I still will not listen to classical music.