Harry Edwards was lost, completely lost. The man thought of as the most influential art critic in the city couldn't tell the difference between a fine art gallery and a sixth grade art exhibition. He'd find himself wandering though junkyards finding works of art he enjoyed more than at the museum.
There, a rusted out 1992 Nissan Maxima, rear quarter panel badly dented, headlights smashed, windshield spotted with cracks and stars and yet, in the waning light of sunset, when the shadows hit it a certain way it became breathtaking. Later, the crushed remains of some Ford might catch his eye and he'd spend hours considering the proportions of the torn steel, dented iron and seared plastic.
Later, while in the museum he'd find himself questioning whether a Picasso sculpture even approached the dynamics of the dented bumper of a Dodge Ram pickup truck. Van Gogh's Starry Night became just another crayoned page hanging on his refrigerator and Harry wondered which of his grandchildren would look best missing an ear.
Artisans desperate for the notoriety that a positive review from Harry Edwards would bring, quickly recognized his dilemma, but instead of trying to recommend he take some time off, perhaps rest awhile; they tried ways to capitalize on his sense of lacking. Sculptors would highlight their rusted works, painters would move the burnt oranges, and umber works to the front, in what they called their train wreck sequences.
But Harry found himself wandering through the galleries and writing up his reviews while yearning to wander free in a junkyard or even the city dump. The resulting lackluster reviews had the city art denizens in a quandary. "Was the city sinking in a mire of substandard art?" Individual artist complained about Harry, but it was all just dismissed as a reaction to an unfavorable review.
