Chapter 5: THE 5 CENTS ARTWORK

Again, in a tavern, my friend Juan Tabagwang and I were drinking over five bottles of a drink called, "agua de pataranta." Though most of the time we talk about absurd things, somehow, this time, probably due to the effect of the cold weather and the rain, we started talking about things that made more sense.

I was unaware that Juan looked at my manner of drinking the agua. "I like the way you drink," he said. "First, you looked at the "agua de pataranta," you smelt it, licked your glass slowly, and finally, you suavely drank it in style." Then in a flattering tone he remarked, "Exquisite to look at!"

"Aww … cut it out!" I exclaimed.

"Anyway," he said, "it reminds me of the great artist Sik Sikat."

"What about him?" I asked.

"His artwork is somewhat like your way of drinking," he replied. "His illustration is enthralling to look at. You can almost smell the flowers in it, taste the tantalizing fruits, and the whole panorama envelops and absorbs you. It’s simply marvelous!"

"Hahaha!” I blurted out. Then, as I scratched my head I amusingly said, "What an incredible comparison. However, that's the reason why your artwork sells for $50, sometimes for 5 cents, and Sikat's sells for $5,000,000."

"He's an amazing artist," Juan said. "He deserves it."

"I know," I said, "but that's not the whole picture. He's big and artists like you are the ones who make him bigger. And the publishers, galleries, museums, collectors, and others make him huge."

"Hmm ... you're jealous of him!" Juan remarked.

"Nope, never!" I exclaimed. "Far from it, I never even think about him. That's why my artwork sells for $500."

What I said made Juan think. "Hey, it puzzles me why your artwork sells much higher than mine!?"

"Because I don't idolize Sikat and his kind," I explained. "I don't talk about them the way you do. Instead, I advertise my artwork. However, you advertise them, instead of your work. You make them more popular, and so their artworks command higher prices. You are also indirectly helping the publishers, galleries, museums, collectors, and others increase the value of their collections, their investments."

"But, I have to talk about Sikat. I always copied his artworks," Juan reasoned.

"There's nothing wrong in copying other works," I said. "But, the problem is that the more you talk about Sikat, the more insignificant you'll become. On the other hand, the less you talk about his works and more about yours among your friends and other artists, the more popular you'll become and the greater value your artworks will have." Then I bluntly added, "The more you talk about other artworks, the more you slowly start to die. The less you talk about their works, the more you slowly start to live. You cannot live under the shadows of the great artists. You need a little portion of the sun's rays."

"You are right!" Juan exclaimed. "From now on I will advertise and talk only about our artworks. Besides, artists like Sikat already have tons of money."

"Sikat is lucky!" I remarked. "He is still alive and enjoying his millions. But many of the great artists are dead. When they were alive, many lived in poverty. Their artworks sold very cheap, sometimes for free. The collectors are the ones enjoying the millions of dollars that should have been enjoyed by those artists. That's why they vigorously advertise the works of the artists in their possession to make more millions. And you, Juan, are helping them."

Juan considered what I said. With a discerning look on his face, he said, "Well ... though they did not enjoy the millions due to them, still they are enshrined as the lions of the art world."

"But a living dog is better than a dead lion," I said with a mischievous smile. "Besides, dead lions don't need honor or money. There is no glory and wealth in the world of the dead."

"Are you implying that we are dogs?" Juan asked, slightly ticked off.

"No, we are just puppies," I answered. "We still have a lot of eating and learning to do. But, we puppies are much better off than those dead great lions. We are alive. We can enjoy the little money and honor we have, more so if we are like Sikat."

Maria D'Kapri, our waitress friend, suddenly popped in out of nowhere and said, "Okay puppies, closing time! Pay up!"

"You really don't like us, do you Maria?" I asked.

"Yes!" she answered emphatically.

"But, if we don't come here anymore, then you lost us as your customers," I said, "and you might lose your job."

I'd rather lose my job than wait for the two of you," she said irritated. "You and Juan never give me a tip. Cheapskates!"

I turned to Juan and said, "Pay up, Juan! Give her a tip."

"Why me?" Juan asked. "You earn more than I do." Anyhow, Juan dug into his pockets and paid Maria, plus tip. Then he hurriedly pulled me out of the tavern.

"Why are you in a hurry?" I inquired.

Before Juan could answer, we heard Maria's angry voice. "5 cents! Cheapskates, don't you two ever come back!"

You gave her a 5 cent tip?" I asked Juan. "You ...." But before I could finish, we had to run away from the screaming Maria.

"At least I gave her 5 cents," Juan reasoned. "You gave her nothing. You're so stingy! You're ...."

"Okay, the next time we return to the tavern I'll give her a big tip," I said, just to mollify Juan. "She deserves it. She's a great waitress though."

"Hah!" Juan exclaimed. "So that's why you ignore Maria, the same way you ignore the great Sikat."

"Nope! Sikat is different," I remarked. "I ignore her to make her angry. She looks prettier when she's angry, you know."

"You're a nut case!" Juan said.

"It's the effect of the agua de pataranta," I reasoned.

Funny though, along the darkened street there were no howling dogs and meowing cats. No empty cans and bottles thrown at us, and no cursing voices either. Well, we did not sing our 5 cent song. Anyway, nobody can hear our song if we did sing because it was raining very hard. Besides, the thunder was extremely loud and scary. Soaking wet and cold, we vanished into the night.

Chapter 4: MY BLANK, MY NOTHING, MY MASTERPIECE!

Again, in a tavern, my friend Juan Tabagwang and I drank over four bottles of "agua de pataranta," a drink. This time we talked about the most absurd thing ever. The absurdity was compounded many times over by the effect of the "agua."

Anyway, after drinking many glasses of "agua de pataranta," my tipsy friend casually asked, "What's your best work, your masterpiece?"

It so happened I was carrying a canvas. I slowly raised it and showed it to him. "This is my masterpiece!" I answered with great air.

My friend looked at it. He was speechless with an incredulous look on his face. "Where is it?" he inquired.

"It is already exposed. You just can't see it," I replied. "Also, the medium is undefined and the dimensions cannot be measured. The canvas is unworthy to contain it."

Juan was really bewildered. He asked again, "That's your masterpiece!?"

"Yes, this blank is my masterpiece," I responded. "Human eyes are unworthy to behold it. Even the mind is baffled by its simplicity. It is the essence of all colors."

"But, there's nothing there!" my friend exclaimed.

"I know," I said. "It's nothing."

Suddenly, a very drunk guy butted into our discussion and looked at my empty canvas. He blurted out, "F-fantastic! I-I am blank with admiration. W-what can I say? Wow!" Then he went into a discourse. "However, do we have to look at beautiful colors and composition to appreciate art? Sometimes, our eyes deceive and manipulate us, and we can see only up to the surface of the canvas. On the other hand, our mind is not limited by the canvas. If there is nothing on the canvas to distract the mind, it can range to infinity and can reach the far reaches of all conceivable realms. It can even perceive divine beauty and perfection." He paused and then glanced at me with a mischievous look in his eyes. As he turned away he said, "Your blank gives me that opportunity. M-marvelous! Best work I've NEVER seen!"

Maria D'kapri, our pretty waitress friend, picked up the empty bottles of "agua de pataranta." Then she said, "You two are not only wasting your time drinking, you're also wasting your time discussing foolish things."

As Maria is about to leave, I said, "But it's the best use of our negative time." She ignored me and I turned to my friend, asking him, "What do you think of my masterpiece?"

Juan still looked perplexed, he scratched his head and responded, "I ... I have no words. Really, I have no words, none with your blank-nothing." But my friend regained his wits and he then asked, "What's your point?"

"Well, I was invited to give a lecture on art," I explained. "One of the art students asked me how he could become a creative painter. So, I put up a big piece of white paper on the board and asked him what he saw. He said he saw nothing, just a plain white piece of paper. In answer I told him that he could only paint what he could see and nothing extraordinary would come out of it. But another artist told me some incredible things that he imagined from the white paper. I told him that he would become a very creative and extraordinary painter."

"Are you implying that I have no future as a comics illustrator because I did not see anything in your canvas?" my concerned friend Juan inquired.

"Most artists have the same reaction as you," I said to assure him, "and some become great creative artists later on because they learned their lesson to be perceptive."

Suddenly, from a dark corner of the tavern, another drunk shouted at me, "Hey man!"

I turned toward him and retorted, "What!?"

"No offense," he said, "but I think it’s a little overworked. I happened to know that your entire non-piece idea was similar to Salvador Ukalili's, when he was a lad at an art institute."

"It's different!" I shouted back. "My BLANK, my NOTHING is the essence of ‘everything.’ In other words, the ‘everything’ exists only because of the NOTHING. Ukalili's nothing is simply nothing. And my NOTHING is in capital letters, and Ukalili's nothing is in small letters. Also, NOTHING = O and nothing = o. Obviously, O > o; that is, NOTHING > nothing." Then I sarcastically chuckled.

Juan laughed and remarked," I love your tortured logic."

"I know," I said, agreeing with Juan. "It will take him a while to figure it out."

"Your logic aside ... your blank, your nothing set the standard for the philosophy of art," Juan said amusingly. "It defines one's perception and creativity."

Then we both made hearty, loud laughs.

"Confusingly, I mean s-seriously," I said, "my blank, my nothing is a philosophical and artistic idea that tickles the mind and draws out anybody's innermost latent creative abilities. It can test the depth and range of anyone's perception, from blank to infinity."

"Heh, heh .... It can even separate the extraordinary from the ordinary," my friend added. "I think we already drank enough. It is time to go!"

"Yes," Maria said from behind us. "You two are too drunk. You waste your time talking idiotic things. Go home!"

"Do we really waste our time talking nonsense, Maria?" I asked her, not expecting an answer. Then I turned toward the other drunks in the tavern and asked, "Do we really waste our time talking nonsense?"

"No!" the drunks roared. "We love your nonsense!"

We left the tavern, and along the darkened street we sang our rambling song again, accompanied by the howling of dogs and the meowing of cats. But we ducked, because as we sang, empty bottles and cans flew toward us amid the sound of angry cursing and shouting.

"You people! Sing with us! Sing our blanks, our nothings, the greatest masterpieces of the world! La, la, la..."

Chapter 3: COMICS CREATORS!? NO, COMICS GODS!
I would like to introduce you to my friend, Juan Tabagwang. You already met him twice. Anyway, my friend and I talk about a lot of things. Sometimes we also talk about "nonsense" just to entertain ourselves. Now, let me share to you one of our most recent "empty talks."

When we were in a tavern, we drank three big bottles of "agua de pataranta," a drink. As usual, my friend poured the "agua de pataranta" into his glass and emptied its contents in the blink of an eye. He poured one after the other. After chugging the last one, he lets out a Tarzan-like cry, "AAAAGH!!" Everyone in the tavern were distracted from their drinking and looked at him. We ignored them.

I turned toward Juan and asked him, "Tastes terrible, huh?"

"Y-yep!" he answered. "T-this drink is going to kill us someday."

But the effect of the drink gave him the courage to show, again, his published drawing to me and brag about it.

"Look!" he excitedly said as he pointed to something on his drawing. "The publisher gave me credit as a comic creator!" And he proudly added, "Isn't that something!?"

"Comic creator!?" I asked as I looked at him through the corner of my eye with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, comic creator!" he answered, with emphasis.

"Comic creator!" I said. Then I asked, "You want to hear an idea of mine that has something to do with comic creator?"

Though still dizzy from the effect of the "agua de pataranta," he said, "Okay, blurt it out!" He then reclined in his chair and pushed it away from the table.

"You know Kubita?" I asked.

"That's toilet. You know that I know what that means," he answered with a bit of annoyance. "What's the big deal about it?"

"Well...it is somehow indirectly related to comic creator."

My answer aroused his interest. He moved closer to the table to hear more of what I was going to say.

"The word 'kubita' is not a nice word to hear," I said. "So, it was changed to 'toilet'. Still not good, so it changed to 'men's or women's room'. It still doesn't sound right, so it was then changed to 'comfort room' and then 'lounging room'. Now it's just perfect. But really, what's the difference? Even the word 'janitor' was changed to 'building custodian', then 'building manager,' and finally 'building executive.’ Again, what's the difference? Both 'lounging room' and 'building executive' sound great; whereas, 'kubita' and 'janitor' aren't nice to hear. But, respectively, their meanings are the same."

"Similar reasoning applies to comics," I continued. "The word 'drawer' sounds naive and dreary. ‘Inker' is messy. 'Penciller' sounds rough. 'Comic artist' is educated. 'Comic illustrator' is sophisticated. 'Comic designer' sounds great and fantastic. But, 'comic creator' is tickling to the ears and egos. If it is reduced to 'creator', it is spine-tingling. But what's the difference between all those words? Nothing! Everything is about complicated words and egos. Once things are simplified, there is really nothing there. Same thing goes for 'comic creator'. Once you simplify it, it boils down to the word, drawer."

"So, you and I are drawers?" my friend asked.

"Yes!" I answered.

"What if I hire someone to work for me?" my friend jestingly asked me once more.

"You are not a drawer anymore." I smiled at him and then said, "Now you are a master of the drawers."

Then we laughed at ourselves. The others drunks around us curiously looked at us, distracted by our laughter. We turned to them and raised our glasses of "agua de pataranta."

"Toast with us, my friends!" I said. "We are the drawers laughing at ourselves."

They toasted their drinks with us and in chorus they said, "A toast to you and all the drawers of the world!"

The whole tavern erupted with laughter. As it started to die down, my friend looked at me with excited eyes, and said, "But I really like the word 'creator'. It sounds like something great."

"If you want to go all out why not, 'comic god' or 'god' simply," I jestingly remarked.

"Omigosh, that's too much already!" my friend said. "It's getting scary! I'd rather stick to drawer. But since it sounds so dreary, I'll settle for creator."

"Right you are, my friend Juan," I said. "But the master of the drawers is also the master of the creators. Or, if you settle for god, then the master will be the master of the gods."

"Now we are going into a foolish discussion," my friend said, as he scratched his head. Then he looked at the bottle of "agua de pataranta." "Amazing," he exclaimed, "how this drink affects our minds! And we came up with all that nonsense about comic creator."

We drank the last drop of "agua de pataranta" from our glasses and exited the tavern. Along the dark street our out of tune singing could be heard, accompanied by the howling of dogs and the meowing of cats.

"We are the drawers, comic creators, and comic gods of the world. Sing with us! La, la, la ..."

Out of nowhere, we heard, "Shut up!!!"

Chapter 2: HOW NOT TO INSULT AN ARTIST

Again, in a tavern, my friend Juan Tabagwang and I drank over two bottles of "agua de pataranta," a drink. After gulping several glasses, the drink began to take effect and we became dizzy. Stupid ideas began to spin around in our heads.

My friend called my attention, "Hey pal!" Then he said, "You know what!? There is this guy who is such a great artist. I am jealous of him and I want to break his ego by insulting him."

Even though I was a bit drunk, I was taken aback by what he said. I looked at him with raised eyebrows and exclaimed, "Huh!?"

"What should I do?" he asked.

"Are you nuts?" I inquired.

"Maybe...," my friend answered. Then he looked at his glass of "agua de pataranta" in his hand. "Probably, this drink makes us crazy." Then he made a hearty loud laugh.

"Not me!" I said. Then I laughed also.

"Seriously!" he said as his face changed to an earnest look. Then he asked again, "What should I do to insult him?"

Just to humor my friend, I said, "Well...you can tell him that his artwork is similar to such and such, or insinuate that his artwork is not an original, just a copy from someone who is a great artist."

"Just like that?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, "but be very tactful. He might turn the table against you."

"How?"

"Let me tell you one of my experiences and learn from it," I said. "I know this guy, Luk Luko, who was very jealous of me and he told me that my style is similar to this very popular and world-class artist, named Sik Sikat. So, I told him that I never heard the name Sikat. Probably he is the one who copied my style. To rub it in, I added that the level of my artwork is world-class also, because it is similar to Sikat's."

Then I asked my friend, "You know what?"

"What?"

"It really pissed off Luko and he went away fuming mad."

"Do you know of another way of insulting an artist if you are jealous of him?" my friend asked again.

"Usually, not only because of jealousy, but also because of insecurity and inferiority, artists are asked most often ‘who were the other artists that influenced them.’ Though it is true that all artists were influenced by other artists, the question is insulting and it implies that the artist being asked is just a copycat."

"So, if you are asked that kind of question, what's your answer?"

"Most often, I answer that I copied from everybody."

"Then you are also a copycat," my friend remarked.

"Partly, but the difference is that the artist who copied from all artists is the best of all artists. He knows all the styles of all artists. Whereas the artist who copied from just one artist is always second best to that artist and he knows only one style."

My friend nodded in agreement and then took one big gulp of "agua de pataranta." After he wiped his mouth clean, he asked me another question. "Do you still know another way to insult an artist?"

"You're weird," I said. "Why do you want to insult all those good artists? There are so many of them. You'll be making a lot of enemies."

"It makes me feel good!" he exclaimed.

"You really are an idiot!" I said. "Anyway, here's another one. If you are jealous of another artist, praise his artwork to high heavens. Don't tell him his weaknesses so that he will never improve." Finally, I added, "If you really want to trash an artist's ego, tell him straight out that his artwork sucks. Then duck."

"Why?" my friend quizzically asked.

"He is definitely going to punch you!" I answered.

We then boisterously laughed. Afterward, we emptied our glasses of "agua de pataranta." We exited the tavern drunk and along the dark alley we sung a noisy, rambling song accompanied by the howling of dogs and meowing of cats.

"Sing with us the song of insults to all the artists of the world ... La, la, la ..."

Chapter 1: YOUR COMIC ILLUSTRATION SUCKS!
There are three things any artist must strive to do to figure out why his comic illustration or his artwork sucks. To find out what are these three things, read my story, which follows:

Many years ago, when I worked as a comic illustrator, a friend of mine, Juan Tabagwang, proudly showed me his comic illustration.

"What do you think?" he asked me.

"Your work is great!" I answered. "It is wonderful! It’s great indeed, fantaaaaastic!"

It really boosted his ego and made him very happy. From then on he kept showing me his artwork, expected me to praise it, and give comments that would tickle his ears.

Once we drank over a bottle of "agua de pataranta.” By the way, "agua de pataranta" is a kind of drink. "Agua" is water, and "pataranta" is "to make confused." Anyway, let's continue with my story.

After chugging a glass of "agua de pataranta," my friend showed me again his work.

"This is my masterpiece!" he said. "What can you say about it?"

I glanced at it nonchalantly and remarked, "Your comic illustration sucks!"

He was shocked and a look of disbelief flashed on his face. Then he immediately picked up his drawing, and left without saying a word. He was terribly hurt.

After a month, he had forgiven me for what I had said. And again, in a tavern, we drank over a bottle of "agua de pataranta."

"How come my comic illustration sucks?" he asked.

"How come you're asking me?" I asked back. "You know the answer. You'll figure it out."

Quizzically, he looked at me as he scratched his head. I ignored him, and instead I sipped from my glass of "agua de pataranta." But he tried to get even with me.

Probingly, he asked, with a sarcastic tone in his voice, "Does your artwork also suck!?"

"Yes," I answered, "I found out why my artwork sucks a long time ago. But you, you still have to figure it out."

He looked at me through the corner of his eye and tried to glean something out from my answer. He then drank a full glass of "agua" and he turned toward a drunken guy sitting at a table not far from us. He made a stupid remark that actually should have been directed toward me, but he directed it to this guy.

"He's ugly! He sucks!" he said.

"No!" I countered. "He's ok! There's something in him that is very interesting. Look carefully."

"He's really ugly!" He emphasized it by adding, "Looks to me he’s like a frog! Palaka!"

"But the more I look at him, the more he looks like Adonis!" I said.

He turned to me and said, "Something is wrong with your eyes!"

"No, something is wrong with yours. You just drank the "agua" not the "pataranta," and you can't see what I see!" To drive home my point, I added, "Now, you know why I know why my artwork sucks, and you don't know why your artwork sucks! Instead of one, you now have two things to figure out. And there's another one at the end..."

We continued arguing until we emptied the bottle of "pataranta". We left the tavern, but along the way, through a dark alley, we still continued to differ.

"Though I don't know why, your artwork doubly sucks!"

"Yours sucks three times more than mine!" I countered.

"Four times!"

"Five times!"

"Six times!"

"Seven times!"

"Eight times!"

"..................."

"All the times!" he exclaimed.

With finality, I said, "But you must figure out two things, one at a time, and after that it will take you a lifetime!"


Now, what are those three things? YOU, out there, also figure it out!

INTRODUCTION

Most of the stories are based on the true experiences of the author which have been fictionalized to make it entertaining and funny. As seen through the eyes of the two struggling and drunken artists, it is a critical and philosophical look at human follies, with art as the backdrop.

Each chapter is an independent story but they are interconnected to other chapters in the form of a single never ending story. Though initially about art, it becomes more diverse and complex as the story goes on.

CHAPTERS

Chapter 1: Your Comic Illustration Sucks!

Chapter 2: How Not to Insult an Artist

Chapter 3: Comics Creators!? No, Comics Gods!

Chapter 4: My Blank, My Nothing, My Masterpiece!

Chapter 5: The 5 Cents Artwork

Chapter 6: Superheroes

Chapter 7: Abstraction

Chapter 8: The Art of the Fools on the Hill

Chapter 9: The Absolute Art

Chapter 10: The Art of Catching the Cross-Eyed Shark

Chapter 11: "Comics" Is a Religion

Chapter 12: The Origin of the Crop Circles

Chapter 13: How to Draw With Your Butt

Chapter 14: The Art of Lunacy

Chapter 15: How to Draw While You're Sleeping

Chapter 16: The Art of Resurrecting the Dead

Chapter 17: Kong, the King

Chapter 18: If Only I Could Hold Back the Time

Chapter 19: Super Kapre