I know Rob McLeod, and he’s one of my favourite artists.
He’s my wife’s uncle, so nepotism, access and familiarity surely play roles in my admiration of his work, but I reckon the parasocial sense of intimacy is what all great artists and writers cultivate in their audience.
It just happens that I know Rob to drink with.
We already have three of his works spread throughout my house.
He also decorated our wedding cake.
Several of his sculptures brought life to Bureau - my shared office in Wellington.
My beloved in-laws turned up a few weeks ago with a new beauty. This one’s specifically aimed at me.
Just look at it!
Rob is a confirmed atheist, who is forced to endure my mystical musings about levitations, bilocations, stigmata and all the other stuff I love about monastic Christianity. I relate it to the inspiration experienced by artists to this day.
It’s kind of the reverse of the ‘conservative uncle at family gatherings’ trope.
Here’s a man of the secular, rational present, trying to enjoy his Christmas beers while his quasi-nephew rants about spiritual phenomenology.
My ravings obviously sparked something in him, though.
He was painting the canvas above and reckons it just kind of turned out this way.
It put him in mind of me, so he sent it my way.
I love it.
We’ve already discussed the way I’ll pay him back.
We both agree that the value of an artist’s work increases significantly upon their death.
It’s an inevitable outcome of the law of supply and demand.
Once dead, an artist can’t make any more work, thus making all the work they have made to date more valuable.
So I’ve promised, in the event that I outlive Rob, that I shall arrange an auction of his work, over his dead body, as part of his funeral.
We both agree it will create quite a stir.
We both doubt it will ever happen.
Next-of-kin repulsion notwithstanding.
Death, I hope we mean.
