How good is your imagination?

I punched in for work at Best Buy around 9:00 a.m. the morning after I met the world famous Stanley Marsh. At the time, I didn’t know he was world famous. He was simply a crazy guy that somehow had the disposable income to do great art on a grand scale. All morning I was trying to figure out how I could get from the west side of Amarillo to downtown, eat lunch with Stanley, and be back to work inside of a half hour. Impossible. I was going to need an alternative story or, as we like to call it in the business, a big lie. I went to work managing the software department and my mind went to work on a viable fabrication. As I was relocating the jazz CD’s, it came to me. I would start by mentioning to my boss that I wasn’t feeling very well. I would then go back to work and casually repeat the complaint every half hour. By 11:30, I was “in agony” and I needed to go home or I would barf all over the video games. The prospect of that clean up job made my boss give the quick ‘OK’ to send me home. I was free and clear to make my art appointment. Looking back on the situation, I realize it was deceitful and wrong. I also realize I would do it again the exact same way. C’mon, it was Best Buy.

I tried not to step too lively on the way out to my car, but I was excited. I crawled into my non-air conditioned, white Ford EXP and headed downtown to Stanley’s office. Around the bank building, there was regular people’s parking and executive’s parking. Since there were no signs that said I couldn’t park in the executive’s lot, only that this was the executive's lot, I parked next to BMWs and Volvos as I did the previous day. There was a guard in a booth that patrolled the lot, but he couldn’t care less that I parked there. After I got to know him, he told me he loved seeing my crappy little car among the rich guy’s cars. Me too! Once again I got a little nervous as I walked through the lobby to the elevators. I clamored onto an available car and pushed old #12 and up I went.

After a few floor stops, I finally reached my destination. I tried to casually glide up to the front desk like I had done this a million times, but I probably looked more like an eight year old at a natural history museum; happy, lost, in awe and little scared. The same red headed receptionist was at the helm again. (Just for the record, I knew her name, but time has played with my brain and I forgot it. My apologies to her.) I told her I was here again and she promptly called Melba, Stanley’s personal secretary. Again I was told that Stanley would be out to see me in a few minutes. I could either wait on the croquet court again or in the library. Since I saw the croquet room yesterday, I opted for the library. She pointed toward the back of the office and said, “He shouldn’t be long.” I thanked her and slowly made my way to the books. Along the way, I passed two women sitting at their desks typing. It was still a little early for computers to be as wide spread as they are now, so they clacked away on top-of-the-line typewriters. I never did learn what their jobs were.

The library was an impressive little semi-circular room with books from floor to ceiling. It had maybe a thousand books of all shapes, sizes and topics. What struck me most was what lay on the table in the middle of the room. It was two copies of Madonna’s limited edition book SEX. It had only been released for a week at the most. I badly wanted to look at it since it was so controversial at the time. I had to weigh my options. Do I thumb through the book really quickly and risk getting caught looking at naughtiness by Melba, or do I play it cool now and risk not getting to work here and never seeing it. My voyeurism would have to wait because Stanley popped his head in and told me to come to his office.

We sat down on one of his sofas and he asked how I was doing. We made some small talk and I pointed out that it was cool that he had two copies of the new Madonna book. He said that the bookstore had two copies, so he bought them both. With a sly grin on his face he said, “I thought I should get both of them so small children wouldn’t have access to such filthy material. You can look at it later if you want!”, which I did as soon as I could. Stanley grabbed a legal pad, leaned back and propped his feet up on the ottoman/table. He started with a clearing of his throat, and then he said, “I have a couple of questions I need to ask you before I agree to hire you.” In my mind, I thought, “Hire? I don’t need another job. I want to do artwork,” but I just said, “Fire away.” He repositioned his glasses and read from his notepad. “Would you be willing to break the law for art?” was his first question. I replied, “Yes, I would. I already have.” Stanley smiled wide and found the second question. “Would you get naked for art?” I felt my stomach clinch up. I was, and still am, very modest. The thought of what that question might commit me to doing was unnerving. Finally, I swallowed my pride and said, “Sure.” (Just for the record, I never had to get naked for art. He just wanted to see my reaction.) The third and final question was one I wasn’t expecting. Stanley looked up from his notepad and looked me square in the eyes. He said, “How good is your imagination?” I was dumbfounded. After years of learning from books and teachers about method and technique and structure, no one ever said, “What you need for good art is a good imagination.” In that instant, I knew I was going to learn more from this man than any art teacher I’d ever had. I thought for a minute because I truly wondered if I had a good imagination or not. Finally, I muttled the answer, “My imagination is better than a lot of other people, but it could always be better.” I could see Stanley smile under that wiry white mustache. He said, “You’re hired. I’m going to pay you five dollars an hour. When can you work?” I wasn’t expecting to get paid for this, but I sure didn’t turn it down. I told him that I had a full time job and Wednesdays and Sundays were my days off, so I could work all day with him on those days. He accepted that and we shook hands. He stood up and straightened his shirt saying, “If you had come to me just asking for a job, I wouldn’t have given you one. But you said you wanted to do art. That’s important because art is important. Now, let’s have some lunch!”

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