Yesterday I spent nearly an hour gazing at this famous painting, Blue Boy. Now, now, no need to be jealous. I was not at the Louvre, the Met or the National Gallery of Art.
Can you guess where I was? Never mind, you’ll never guess.
I was at a local tire shop, getting the oil in my car changed and there, hanging on the wall between the row of vending machines and Kelly Ripa blabbing away on the tv, hung what I will assume to be a reproduction of Blue Boy. He was gazing with bemusement at the small crowd gathered in the tire shop waiting area, juxtaposed with posters of the rolly polly Michelin Man.
I pondered. Is Blue Boy auditioning to be the next Michelin Man? Is the Michelin Man the secret love child of Blue Boy and an unknown marshmallow-woman? Is the owner of the tire shop trying to introduce classic art to the masses? Was this unassuming building formerly a secret art museum? Was the waiting area professionally decorated by the owner of the local flea market? Was I hallucinating from the powerful rubber smell of new tires?
We may never know. But at least I got the oil changed.