Bob in La Honda: Nudism is the answer

Dear The Tank,

My sculptor neighbor works late at night, using a lot of noisy saws, nail guns, and other pneumatic tools. Through his studio door you can see his welder arcing, sparks shooting up into the air. I’m not a hater of art or anything, but I moved up here for peace and quiet. This situation has neither.

—Bob in La Honda

Dear Bob in La Honda,

You clearly are a hater of art, but one who isn’t self-aware enough—as so many art haters aren’t—to realize it. That’s okay. The world needs dipshits and philistines, too.

But your shortcomings aren’t what’s at issue; nor are they what you wrote to us about seeking guidance. So. Here goes.

Bob, you have to start going nude at home. Walking up to the road to get the mail, mowing the grass (with shoes on!), washing the car, all these tasks and more you should do nude. This comprehensive nudity will demonstrate that you are one with nature. Even the most urbanized and interior of artists have an organic affinity for people who they believe to be one with nature.

True human exchange will emerge from your change in attire. Artists being what they are, your neighbor will become curious about you, and within a couple of weeks that curiosity will spiral, in a good way, into artistic obsession. When you’re indoors, you’ll notice the sculptor peeking through your windows. When you’re outdoors, you’ll see him through the trees, or perhaps he’ll come over to talk about the 49ers or the Giants—La Honda is in California’s San Mateo County, correct?—and hang around a little past the point when the conversation has run its course.

And then your payoff arrives: your neighbor, reinvigorated by fascination with the human form and human kinesis, starts working with hand tools and softer, quieter materials. No more shall circular saws shriek in the night. Through the open shop door you will see figures of yourself rising up from the floor. Clay models, casts of the models, and finally full-blown statues will fill the studio. If he can snag the proper glass enclosures and suitable refrigeration equipment, he might make butter sculptures of you.

But you will start to be bothered by seeing Statue-You everywhere. You like You-You, and the ubiquity of Statue-You will start to unsettle you. Additionally, it’ll be worse for you than it would be for many people because, remember, you hate art, no matter your protestations. Here your neighbor is giving you the gift not only of quiet nights, but the gift of art, and you’re starting to be a dick about it.

You’ll think that you have much to complain about. A friend of yours who must be in New York several times a year will have sent what he understandably thinks is a friendly and funny text, saying he just saw six statues of you in a gallery there. He’ll attach pictures, including one of him watching a woman lying on her side gazing up at your sculpted abs. What’s worse, you’ll learn from other friends that your neighbor sells his work through not one but two galleries, and the other is just up the road, in too-close-for-You-You’s-comfort San Francisco.

Finally, you’ll learn that the statues sell for $10,000 each.

Now You-You is pissed. You’ll feel a sense of rivalry with the Statue-Yous. Why should people be so eager to look at them, let alone lay down 10 large, when they are but pale simulacra of the original Bob? You will take to standing by the road to draw the gazes and appreciation of passersby. “Here’s the original, baby!” you’ll call out.

A San Mateo County Sheriff’s deputy will show up on your driveway one night. You, who live in La Honda, the land of Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters; La Honda, where Neal Cassady began a mad drive across the country. La Honda, a refuge for (mostly) decent people. You’ll stand on your lawn in the harsh wash of the Crown Victoria’s headlights and greet the deputy au naturel. If it’s a weekend night maybe you’ll have a beer in your hand. The deputy will know you’re an important person because of your nakedness. You’ll tell the deputy some crap about how your neighbor is denying you your rights because he’s getting rich off of those sculptures and you’re getting nothing.

First, shut up. You weren’t required to sit for the piece; you didn’t lose time or expend effort. You’re a raw material now. You’re a human Third World country: you have a resource, your Bob-ness, which your neighbor extracted from you and shipped off to his refinery aka studio. How does it feel to be commodified, baby?!?! Not good? That’s art!

Second, notice the deputy’s hands. They’re in front of him. His fingers are laced. As he listens to you, he actually twiddles his thumbs. You mention that the sculptor has looked through your windows. But he hasn’t done this in months, not since he made the earliest casts of the clay models. There’s nothing for the deputy to cite.

Third, notice yourself. You’re becoming a crank. You started with something beautiful, nudism, and now you devolve into this. Stop it. Stop it right now. You can keep evolving, Bob. So do it. Don’t let yourself fester in negativity. Walk with the good deputy over to your neighbor’s studio. Say hello. No, wait. Before you go over, run inside and grab a beer for your neighbor and one for the cop. That’s better. Go over there, Bob, and enjoy the fellowship of humanity.

Then use your neighborly trip with the accompanying law enforcement officer to deflect suspicion from yourself and go back later, with a hand truck, and steal a Statue-You so You-You can throw it on eBay and make some coin yourself-self. Now you’re learning to appreciate art.

—The Tank

The Tank is inspired by Gracious Living Without Servants, the new novel by Wall Street Journal writer Brenda Cronin. Juliet, the heroine of that novel, makes all kinds of bad choices that end up making life way more interesting. Read the first chapter.