Twelve Lines About Nine Artists

  • or, stuff I just learned about these guys, set to rhyme

    A titan of tempera was the man titled Titian, and a tinting Italian was he.
    Goya of Aragon? A painting paragon, even on Guam, Spain’s tiny(est?) colony.
    ‘Sally’ Dali dialed up dollars, dealing in duplicates of pre-signed surreality.
    Renoir, well he, at least pre-war, impressed French humanity quite readily.

    Many artists back then drew in poverty’s den, not so Sir Peter Paul Reubens.
    Picasso saw his own blues period end when he swapped boo-hues for cubin’s
    Poor V. Van Gogh, you may well know, lacked an ear for his years’ artsy trends.
    Though Vince winced, Theo convinced him that for the Monet he oughtta Gauguin.

    We are now in an era of digital cameras, and painting is all but irrelevant,
    unless the painter paints trees on Public TV, or card-playing dogs on velvet
    The best of the new breed, chum, has found a new medium, and now spray
    walls amidst the slums. In lightening the tedium; art always finds its way.

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