Output 43—Kill Your Idols

Yes, that is the severed head of a Wild Thing doll. Are you triggered?

Maurice Sendak was the childhood idol of every GenXer, and Where the Wild Things Are was a manifesto of rebellion and anti-authoritarianism. We all loved it. We all loved him. Through his illustrations and stories, we all learned it was OK to do our own thing, to separate from our parents, at least briefly, and have adventures. There was always a safe home to come back to.

Maurice Sendak was also an asshole. Sorry. I said it.

I met him. I worked for him. When I was at Bennington, he came there to speak, which he NEVER did, because one of the art professors was apparently his adopted son? or maybe his boyfriend? or maybe both? I’ll just call him “the guy.” In any case, my boss in the Office of Publications, who loved to think of himself as Very Important, managed to corral Sendak, who was then working on an “adult” screenplay.

Sendak needed a typist. My boss pimped me out. He didn’t just SUGGEST me. I was hired, sight unseen, to type this crazy screenplay (I would tell you what it was about but I’m afraid I’ll get sued).

Trouble was, I was not a typist. A writer, an editor, a proofreader… but not a typist. My boss set the payment terms—they were by the hour, not by the word. And I took FOREVER.

I think I met Sendak briefly in person, and spoke to him on the phone once or twice, but otherwise all communication came through his guy. After a few days, I finished typing and (silly, so silly) laid the thing out in the same font used in Sendak’s books, and even attempted some tiny cherub drawings or some shit on the front page. Ugh. Embarassing.

But here’s the really shitty part: Two days later Sendak’s guy burst into the Publications office where I was working, accused me of trying to cheat Maurice out of money by taking too long to type, and made it very clear that I would not be paid. I tried to call Sendak. He refused to answer my calls.

I have held on to this fucking doll that he signed for me (at my boss’s behest, before the typing) since I was 20 years old. I guess I figured Sendak was a superstar of literature, and no matter how humiliating that experience was, his name is written on this thing’s feet. It’s in terrible condition, I never put it in plastic or anything, I’m sure it wasn’t worth much on the collectibles market. But he’s famous and much beloved. It’s bigger than me.

It also made me feel like shit. For 37 years, this thing has been hanging around, the ghost of ruined potential, shoved in a corner, reminding me of my betters and how I’ll never be anything but a sad wannabe. At the time, I wanted to write and illustrate books, and I sure as fuck screwed that up with my sycophantic bullshit. God, why did I draw those cherubs? Why am I such a piece of shit?

But not today.

I was looking for some things to use in an art thing today when I saw it in my closet, sitting on top of the cabinet with a bunch of books and other random crap, and I had the sudden urge to KILL IT. And kill it I did.

I sewed the neck opening seams back together so I can stick another head on it and use the body for something else.

The severed head will stand as a reminder of so many things, but mostly, as a reminder that I’m an artist. Period. Not as good as Sendak? What does that even mean. It doesn’t matter. Art isn’t a competition and it SHOULDN’T BE commerce.

Fuck you, Maurice Sendak.

There, I said it. That felt good.