Manny Coon

Automatically generated script; wording may contain errors. Speaker labels are inferred.

1. 00:00
   

   Manny Coon

   Good evening, graduating class of the Ontario College of Art. My name is Manny Kuhn, and I've been asked to speak to you about art. Yeah, when I look out over your sea of vacant faces, I feel like to puke. Because I don't think any of you have suffered. Not like old Manny Kuhn here has suffered. I was born in a brothel in a town which now no longer exists. When I was born, my mother mistook the afterbirth as my twin. And the cuter one, too, apparently. As I was immediately sold to the cleaning woman for a stamp. The cleaning woman, who went by the name of Magda, Magda lived out at the edge of town in an abandoned freezer with a bum named Lucky. Magda and Lucky used to fight over whose turn it was to beat me. So, to distract myself from the misery of my surroundings, I began to draw. And I drew whatever I could get my hands on. Flat and Kleenex boxes, tin cans, fruit. but nothing fresh. I never had a piece of fresh fruit until I was 21, and it was a lime. I still take the existence of peaches on hearsay. I was kicked out of the freezer when I reached puberty, so I hit the open road in search of fame and fortune. For the next ten years, I wandered, sort of like that German shepherd hobo. except i don't lick strangers faces unless i'm fucking them my school was the open road paid and suffering my textbooks my teachers the gypsies and rapscallions i met along the way the only constant of my life was my art for you see boys and girls i manny coon am enslaved to the harshest mistress of all, my muse. And that bitch rode the right side of my brain for all she was worth. Always driving me on to find that shade of blue that makes you cry, that red that makes you hot. And always, always to paint bigger and better tits. For For you see, I, Matty Coon, had a creed of core one day. Matty, I said, what is it about your work that gets to the people? It was the tits. From then on, I only painted tits. Green tits, yellow tits, blue tits, tits with three nipples, tits over Atlanta, tits in wool and fur, installation tits, tits, tits, tits. And the result? Now my work hangs in all the best galleries in the planet. And the art world is lining up to collectively kiss my ass. So here I stand before you, drunk, smug, impotent. The only way I can come is to be hit by a bus. And I'm supposed to give you advice about art. The only advice I can give you is every morning when you get up, paint something. I don't care what it is. A bottle of wine? A carrot? Your favorite member of Menudo? Me? I like to paint a genital first thing. If I'm too hungover, I photocopy my balls. If you're worried about chromosome damage, don't bother. Artists shouldn't have kids. I don't really give a shit what you do. Just don't do it in my living room. Good luck.