Allusion (ə-ˈlü-zhən):[1] A reference/representation of/to a well-known person, place, event, literary work, or work of art . . . “a brief reference, explicit or indirect, to a person, place or event, or to another literary work or passage”. It is left to the reader or hearer to make the connection . . . ; an overt allusion is a misnomer for what is simply a reference.[2]
I think it was Rod Stewart who said “Every picture tells a story.” That may be true, but the meaning of a picture isn’t in the picture. Where is it then? It may be in what motivated the “subjects” of a given picture, or also, the picture-maker’s motive for taking or making the picture. What about Jackson Pollock? I always ask, “Where’s the picture?” At best it’s a jumbled exclamation point. At worst he spilled a bunch paint he didn’t bother to clean it up. Most abstract art is like that. Drug induced doodles, or con jobs, like a dot in the middle of a canvas titled “floater” after the little black flecks you get in your eyes when you hit old age. Not so “Abstract” after all!
One famous painting, “Winter Sunset” by Corny Hasbot turned out to be a cow’s ass. It didn’t matter. It sold for $2,000,000 at auction last week. The auction’s attendees chanted “Cow’s ass! Cow’s ass!” when it hit the auction block. Some even Mooed! The attendees were clearly delighted and the bidding was fast and furious. There is power in titling. It orients people and induces meanings. Euphemism is a great example. Calling a sawed off arm a “boo boo” renders it easier to cope with. Most medical terminology is euphemistic. Like, “You’re unwell from tomocretchinosis.” “Oh” you say as you breathe your last, floating on a cloud of morphine induced incomprehensibility.
Then, there was Leonardo Di Vinci. He knew the power of naming. I have been researching for half my life the “meaning” of Mona Lisa. Recently, I got an “Uber Grant” to go to Italy. I was provided a free ride to the airport and cheese and crackers for the flight. I was more excited than I can say! There was no money and I had to pay my own airfare, which was fine with me. I was using my mother’s credit card. I had borrowed it from the bag she carries around. I was headed to Florence where DiVinci’s studio was when he painted “Mona Lisa.”
I landed in Rome. I made a sign that said “Florence” and started hitch hiking north. People laughed at me as they sped by. Somebody threw a sign out their car window that said “Firenze..” I held it up and got a ride almost immediately. The guy who picked me up said “I have a package for you to deliver, we detour to Bologna.” I dropped the package off at a police station and received a round of applause as the police fought over the package. It tore open and a ZipLoc bag full of gold chains fell out. I ran back to the car.
I arrived in Florence late that night. I slept on a bench outside the Hotel Vespa. The next morning I had a boar meat sandwich and a cup of coffee. Then, I headed out to DiVinci’s studio. The lady selling tickets told me that for 80 euro I could get access to DiVinci’s secret storage unit in the basement. I didn’t have 80 euro, so I offered her my wristwatch that my mother had given me for High School graduation. She took it! She gave me a giant key and pointed down the stairs. There wasn’t much there. However I noticed a canvass bag that said “Fagioli” on it. I looked in my Italian/English dictionary—it meant “Beans.” There was also a bowl and a wooden spoon! Then I knew! DiVinci fed beans to Mona Lisa, making her fart. The look on her face is a post-fart expression of satisfaction. I had cracked it—it wasn’t a smile at all!
I headed back to the US expecting to become famous. but the bag of beans was discovered in my canvas tote at the Rome Airport. The beans were dumped out and the bag was destroyed. I am not permitted to leave Italy because there is an investigation. Now, I have no evidence, but my story is true. I have secured the support of the “Kensington Free Farter Society.” They will not shy away from the truth, no matter how much it smells or refutes the standard “smile” narrative.
I am currently stranded in Rome working as a guide at the Colosseum! My “character” is a Christian martyr. The investigation concluded I did no wrong. My mother’s credit card is expired. In about a year, I’ll have enough money for a plane ticket home. In the meantime, I’ve had a flyer printed with my last few euro in Italian: “Scoreggia e Verita” (The Farting Truth).
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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