The Rocky art show

The venue for Rocky’s art show is the Broadway Street Fair which takes place once a year, right in front of the building in which we live. On the day of the fair, the whole stretch of Broadway starting with Liberty Park at one end and Main Square at the other, including all the access roads, is blocked off with pink barricades. There are two rock bands at either end of the cordoned-off section, so that their music doesn’t overlap.

Bins and I set up our stall. It consists of a trestle-table, a couple of easels displaying Rocky’s artwork and a prominent sign which reads “See THE AMAZING ROCKY ART SHOW! WORLD’S FIRST PAINTING RACCOON!” along with a cartoony portrait of Rocky wearing an artist’s beret. All around us, there are similar scenes in progress, local artists and artisans setting up tables and display stands, arranging their wares.

There are candied apples, hand-made jewellery, tie-dyed tee shirts and batik scarves, decorative pipes and intricately carved walking sticks. There’s on-the-spot face-painting, temporary tattoos and full body massages, Toss-The-Bean-Bag challenges and races for small children. The police station has provided three of its squad cars for children to climb into and explore. There’s a clown getting ready to crack jokes with the public. A bright red shaggy giant from Sesame Street is making himself available for mobbing by armies of tiny tots.

The bands begin to play. Visitors start wandering in. “Here they come,” says Bins to Rocky. “Are you nervous?” “Yes!” says Rocky, unexpectedly. He’s pulling at his whiskers in panic. “What’s the matter?” I ask him. “Too many dogs!” he squeaks. I look around. He’s right. There are a lot of dogs. Chihuahuas and Dachshunds, Rottweilers and pit-bulls, dainty greyhounds and excitable huskies. “They’re on leashes,” I tell him, “you’ll be safe.” “Pet dogs hate raccoons!” whispers Rocky. “The moment they smell me they’ll want to tear me apart!”

“Nonsense!” says Bins. “Just stand on the table, wear your beret and tell yourself, ‘I’m an artist, not a raccoon!’ It’s called mind over matter, my friend!” A young couple runs up, saying they can’t believe the paintings on display were done by a raccoon. Rocky’s eyes gleam and his whiskers twitch. “Want to see a demonstration?” he says. “OmiGosh! He talks?” the couple shriek. Within seconds, there’s a crowd milling in front of our stall. We’re sold out in three hours and Rocky’s paws are worn out from slapping paint onto blank pieces of paper.

Back in the house, Rocky flops down on a cushion while Bins counts up the days’ earning. “Wow-wow-wow!” he says. “Monsieur Rocky has made $500!” I raise my eyebrows. “Excuse me? What about us?” “Now, now,” says Bins. “We must not be greedy. Our services are free for the moment. Great art needs great sacrifices!” To which Rocky says, “No! Great art needs great laddoos!” Then he rolls over and begins snoring loudly.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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