Farewell
There can never be too many good dogs. Remember that.
I was born in Houston in 1940. Is that important? The thing is I was on the planet for a while. Some of you knew me.
It is fair to say that I was a creative person: drawing, painting, writing, and photographing. Asleep, I was a wildly creative dreamer.
I never traveled. Never wanted to. My observable life was dull and timid, but always, I enjoyed a rich inner-life.
I never met an artist more valuable than a good plumber.
In my early 20s, I lived in Manhattan. I spent most of my free time in museums, concert halls, libraries, and evening and weekend art and writing classes. For about four years, I made less than $60 a week. I did not know I was poor. To the contrary, I thought I was rich. Too shy to make friends, I was always alone, but I do not remember ever feeling lonely or sad. In so far as I am an educated person, I educated myself in New York.
I loved the absurd. That explains why my one splash was as the first cartoon artist who popularized the armadillo, a creature I found amusing, even ridiculous, one which, to my surprise, became a potent symbol for Texas.
Many people said I was smart, but no one ever accused me of being wise.
With my friends, I was too often difficult, negligent, depressed, drunk, selfish and self-absorbed. (A complete list of my failings available upon request.) I am sorry. Now that I am gone, some of them may forgive me, but then since I am gone, what does it matter? Dead is dead. Like W. C. Fields, if I had my life to live over, I would live it over a saloon. I am survived by dear Wanda and about 30 or 40 other close friends.
And I want no squabbling.
Bill Helmer wrote of me, “He was the man who invented despair.” How awful. In truth, there was nothing that ever warranted despair. In truth, I loved being alive on this beautiful planet. I loved seeing, hearing, touching and tasting. I had enough friends, enough time. As Rumi asked of us, What more could I have possibly wished for?
When I died, I was pissed off at no one.
No funeral, no burial, but if you act quickly, free ashes.
Glenn Whitehead
Defunct Artist
Smithville, Texas