Victim of Art
The photographer set up his tripod,
With the fancy box camera on top,
In the very early morn,
On the riverfront.
There was a cold breeze
That bit hard
Into whatever flesh it could touch.
And he pointed his camera
At the person who lay sleeping,
Or sleeping it off,
On the ravaged public bench.
Dressed in old stained sweats,
A couple of layers of t-shirts and
Socks and knitted mittens,
With a large woolen over coast to top it off,
They lay sleeping, oblivious and tore back.
The photographer was very pleased.
The light was “just right”.
The dark circles under their eyes,
Every crack and crevice of their worn out body,
Every pustule, was captured, in all their gory glory.
To be developed, printed and mounted for the world,
when this suffering person, a victim of the world,
Would now become a victim of the art world.
The “subject” went on sleeping,
As the photographer silently packed up,
Moved on and started to think,
Of how much money this one going to make for HIM.
6/21/2004
With the fancy box camera on top,
In the very early morn,
On the riverfront.
There was a cold breeze
That bit hard
Into whatever flesh it could touch.
And he pointed his camera
At the person who lay sleeping,
Or sleeping it off,
On the ravaged public bench.
Dressed in old stained sweats,
A couple of layers of t-shirts and
Socks and knitted mittens,
With a large woolen over coast to top it off,
They lay sleeping, oblivious and tore back.
The photographer was very pleased.
The light was “just right”.
The dark circles under their eyes,
Every crack and crevice of their worn out body,
Every pustule, was captured, in all their gory glory.
To be developed, printed and mounted for the world,
when this suffering person, a victim of the world,
Would now become a victim of the art world.
The “subject” went on sleeping,
As the photographer silently packed up,
Moved on and started to think,
Of how much money this one going to make for HIM.
6/21/2004
