Why They Kicked Me Out of Art Class

Mona Lisa wasn’t captured

for her tepid, quarter-simper

but for her hands. How one

consoles the other in muted

glow. Her nails gnawed half-

way to the twixt.

Anxiousness will do that

now & then, but it’s the visage 

which wonders the world.

And a little touch

of cleavage didn’t hurt.

The chair was to be the

star of Whistler’s Mother—

the stark of vacancy. How it may

have traded whispers with

the wall. And who could swear

it’s empty? A spider in the drapes

we’ve paid no attention to.

Look closer—with both

eyes blinked then bolted.

He did his mum a favour. The strokes

of eternal life. His penance for

debauchery—his drinking the

rent away.

And then there is The

Scream. On his deathbed

Munch confessed it was

The Yawn. He changed it to

The Earache, then Trip from the

Dentist’s Office.

Our niece of

eleven insists he’s simply

singing to his iPod, buds

clamped by his palms,

wire tucked in his coat,

channelling Taylor

Swift,

or maybe just a goth who

waxed his head, so he could

better feel the drizzle on

his scalp, or possibly

jounce a sunbeam

whenever clouds

have gotten weary of their

frayed & matted brushes,

the bland of eburnean-grey,

dab some cobalt to

the canvass of his

drab, despondent sky.

Andreas Gripp

August 16, 2026

Edvard Munch