This is the second in a series of self-portraits of primitives of prominence; the primitives as they paint themselves, using words rather than paint.
The Atman primitive derives his official name on Skins's island from a line of women's clothing and perfumes by Bill Russell or Richard Simmons or somesuch; I'm not much up to celebrities.
I've never seen a photograph of the Atman primitive, but in his own words, he alleges to be the spoiled youngest son, to be at the mid-century point in life, to be blond-haired, to be married (his wife in the medical field) and the father of children, to be affluent, and to own two luxurious homes in Connecticut.
The Atman primitive also alleges to be an artist, and to have worked in an advertising department of a "major women's brand" of clothing some years ago; his most recent job, when not sulking in his studio, has allegedly been stuffing envelopes for an orgranization promoting Democrat, liberal, and primitive candidates for public office.
Although primitives lie, there is no reason to doubt these allegations the Atman primitive makes about himself.
Among other miscelleanea, one finds the the Atman primitive was once a free-lance writer for surfing magazines, but this was a long time ago.
Also, the Atman primitive is distantly--but only distantly--related to a one-time U.S. Senator and U.S. Attorney General, bred of the corrupt political machine that has dominated Rhode Island for decades and generations. The Atman primitive hangs around with the crowd that hangs around with the Skakels of Connecticut; he not being quite that affluent, the Atman primitive doesn't himself, but he hangs around with those who do.
And so the self-portrait of the artist as a primitive emerges, Pedro Picasso.
From the first time one reads the words--the "paint" of that self-portrait--of the Atman primitive, one grasps the image of a surly sort of Anthony Blunt, with a supercillious sneer, a drooping lower lip, insolent eyes.
An aesthete who is "too good" for this world, and he highly resents that he has to exist in it, among people lesser than he. The Atman primitive is angry with God, for having put him in such a despicable place, when he rather more deserves a place where his paths are strewn with rose petals, and bordered by admiring hordes of lesser people idolatizing him.
The Atman primitive has not shallow, but non-existent, understanding about things in real life, including politics, economics, the news media, religion, &c., &c., &c.; to read him expounding on one thing or the other is to be filled with incredulity--it's as if listening to the village idiot explaining financial derivatives on the international money markets.
For example, the Atman primitive rejects Christianity, and then embraces Buddhism; not because the Atman primitive is drawn to the serene, self-examining, contemplative, self-denying, aspects of Buddhism, but simply because the Atman primitive believes Buddhism is anti-Christian, and if it's anti-Christian, the Atman primitive's all for it.
This demonstrates the cloudy mind of the Atman primitive, as Buddhism is not anti-Christian any more than an apple is anti-orange, or an orange is anti-apple.
Anyway, the Atman primitive is a lousy Buddhist, so no matter.
And so this is the self-portrait of the Atman primitive, Pedro Picasso. If he doesn't like it, I didn't paint it, he did. I'm just the art critic, not the artist.
Pedro Picasso is also a dramatist, writing his own plays.
I disremember the subject of the bonfire, but there was one about three weeks ago, in which, while reading, the audience got this impression:
One is standing beside ("beside," not behind) a long curtain in a palace somewhere in South America, an old ostentatious marble palace reeking of damp and decay, and seeing Pedro Picasso out on the balcony, obviously yelling at the mob below.
As one is deaf, one has no idea what Pedro Picasso is yelling.
At first, one thinks the crowd outside below is roaring their approval of Pedro Picasso, but as tomatoes begin flying through the air, one finally discerns the crowd is jeering and mocking Pedro Picasso, not applauding him.
After several tomatoes have struck their target, Pedro Picasso ducks back inside the room, shaking his fist at the ungrateful audience, flinging invectives upon them.
Pedro Picasso is wearing the jacket of a South American generalissimo, all but covered by medals and other bric-a-brackery. One catches a momentary glimpse of the fact that Pedro Picasso is wearing nothing below his waist, and then for the sake of modesty, "sees" El Stupido Supremo sit down at a long table, visible only from the waist up.
Ah, the old Lyndon Johnson arrogance, this brazen exposure of private parts to offend the public, the only problem being El Stupido Supremo not being built down there like Lyndon Johnson reputably had been built.
El Stupido Supremo sits sidewise at the table, slamming his fist on it, and glowering Hate and contempt for the audience outside. Tomatoes continue to fly in through the still-open doors to the balcony.
Finally, El Stupido Supremo roars an order, and a little blonde maiden, a serving-girl, comes into the room, and getting splattered with tomatoes herself, manages to shut the doors. For this, El Stupido Supremo flings a stiletto at her, which anchors itself in the wall above her head, shivering. The serving-girl runs back out of the room.
Then El Stupido Supremo yells another order, at which a whole bunch of dwarves rush into the room, to clean him up, to brush his hair, to soothe him, to feed him, after which El Stupido Supremo proceeds to kick the dwarves around the room as if tumbling soccer-balls.
That's the drama El Stupido Supremo writes himself. If the subject doesn't like it, well, El Stupido Supremo wrote it himself. I didn't write it; I'm just the drama critic.
