Laura Cronk
The Nepotist sometimes entertains daydreams wherein he fantasizes ten, twenty, one hundred years into the future. In these fantasies, he tries to imagine who among his poet friends (himself included) is being read, taught, remembered. He wonders if late twentieth and early twenty-first poetry will be relevant to future readers and future poets, and if so-- how so? If literary history teaches us anything, it's that the compilers of anthologies and the keepers of the cannon are bound by their own biases, aesthetic preference, truths. Well, we can't do anything about that. Still, we all want to be remembered as True Artists and there's no shame in admitting it. But who is a True Artist? What makes for True Art?
What's most poignant and worthy of the following poem (written by the herself poignant and worthy Laura Cronk) is that it pokes a necessary finger in the middle of the sucked-in stomach of those of us who fret about how we appear instead of who we truly are and what we truly do. Because ultimately, what matters is the art we make. Not what we wear when we make it, not who we fuck, not who fucks us over, not our little beards, not our mood disorders, not where we live, not the cheese crisps, not the salmon toast, and not our horrible narcissisms (oh, the fun of those narcissisms!). Our only job as poets is to write poems. Everything else is distraction. This poem reminds us of that.
Thanks, Laura.
***
The True Artists
The true artists read about artists in Bucharest who invented literary games.
The true artists assigned each other reading.
The true artists had day jobs and filled out many forms.
The true artists had routines.
The true artists preferred tea.
The true artists drank coffee.
The true artists devoted themselves to their children.
The true artists managed not to have children.
The true artists regretted the children they didn’t have.
The true artists were women, though the artist representing them was a man.
The true artists were men, though it wasn’t their decision.
There were artists who were men and artists who were women. Who were
the true artists?
The true artists loved getting dressed up.
The true artists tracked their expenses.
The true artists sold their paintings to Italian women.
The artist introducing the show was the true artist.
The true artists played stand-up bass.
The true artists accompanied themselves on piano.
The true artists had married John Lennon.
The true artists sang Kurt Weil.
The true artists sang Kurt Cobain.
The true artists wore vintage.
The true artists were creeped-out by used clothes.
The true artists fretted over whether to wear shorts.
The true artists lived in New Mexico.
The true artists lived in Berlin.
The true artists lived in Fort Greene Brooklyn with their boyfriends.
The true artists moved back to Minnesota to be with their dying fathers.
The true artists got married and moved to New Jersey.
The true artists got married and moved to Virginia.
The true artists were suddenly single.
There were artists who were single and artists who were paired-off. The
artists who were single were the true artists.
The true artists never found their mediums.
The true artists found cats.
The true artists forgot to call their mothers.
The true artists got mad when their mothers told them to loose weight /
whiten their teeth.
The true artists collaborated with their mothers.
The true artists wondered how it could have been so long that they’ve lived
without their mothers.
The true artists were depressed.
The true artists thought of their depression in terms of Renaissance
Philosophy.
The philosophy the true artists were interested in said that a beloved had
walked off with the artists’ scrim for seeing / feeling the world and the
artists were left only with their horrible narcissism.
The true artists went to the reception for the artists nominated for true artist
awards.
The nominees were the true artists.
Everyone else was definitely a wanna-be artist.
Except for the editors – they knew what their jobs were. Their jobs were all
about not being artists.
Except one of the award-winning artists had been the editor of several true
artists.
The true artists had one glass of wine too many and several fistfuls of party
food.
The true artists were the editors and they didn’t eat the food.
The true artists were the unknowns who gorged themselves on the food.
The true artists embarrassed themselves in front of their friends by mocking
someone needlessly over by the food.
The true artists were the ones who called the caterers and arranged the food.
The cheese crisps, crackers, salmon toasts, kabobs and crudités were very
interesting to the true artists.
The true artists managed not to talk about any of the art at the party, only the
food and other true artists.
***
About the Poet:
Laura Cronk's poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Ecotone, WSQ, The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel, Best American Poetry and other journals and anthologies. She coordinates the Riggio Honors Program: Writing and Democracy at The New School and co-hosts the Monday Night Poetry Series at KGB Bar. She lives in Jersey City with her husband and daughter.
On the identity of The Nepotist:
The Nepotist is smart, hardworking, and has great taste. I bet 100 clams it's Jennifer L. Knox.
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