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2003, acrylic
on canvas, 2' x 1.5'
The
Filipino piano player eats alone at an unpopular table in a Spanish
restaurant.
Every time he chews, his glasses slip a little closer to the tip
of his nose.
Periodically he pushes them back with the index finger of his left
hand.
He looks unhappy.
The Spanish meal which is probably part of his gig, doesn't seem
to be his thing.
He seems to dream about the fish and rice his mom prepares especially
for him.
Although he is probably 40 years old he looks like his mom is still
cooking for him.
With half the food left on his plate he gets up and goes to the
bathroom, a toothbrush in his hand.
5 minutes later, back in the dining room he slowly, very slowly
walks over to his keyboard.
The rhythm machine repeats lifeless beats and he slips in a floppy
disk with background music.
He starts working the keys, hitting the right notes, at the right
time but still he manages to sound totally uninspired.
Nobody notices him.
The piano player had resigned a long time ago.
I imagine he had never aspired.
At home his mom is waiting with real food and not this funny tasting,
fancy stuff.
There wasn't even any rice.
I finished my Lengua Estofado and it was time for me to pay my bill
and leave.
The music became unbearable.
Why can't they play a Gypsy Kings CD like every decent Spanish restaurant?
Nobody gives a shit anyway.
The piano player would probably be happier as well.
But then I wouldn't have anything to write about.
Well…maybe not… I can always write about masturbation.
|
yesterday
