The Creature's time with Officer Bryan

The sworn report of Officer Bryan Ray, to be read in all the police stations of Dakota County: 

I, Officer Bryan Ray of the Eagan Precinct, was driving my patrol cruiser out of our station’s garage on Monday morning, when suddenly, lo, I perceived to the northwest of me a childlike being standing on a volcanic promontory in the Caucasus Mountains. 

“Strange,” I said; “it looks like a youth who was artificially assembled by a scientific artist (or artistic scientist) from the disparate remains of other youths. — I must get a closer look; the thing appears almost human.”

So I pulled over to the side of the curb and decelerated to a slow roll. I then realized what I was looking at — it was Mary Shelley’s Creature, from her novel FRANKENSTEIN, only he was a little boy. 

I shouted to the being thru my patrol car window: “You look despondent. What’s wrong?”

Mary Shelley’s Creature answered from the promontory: “My Maker malformed me. Therefore I live a life of malfeasance. Please leave me to my doom — I am a lost cause.”

I shook my head and said: “There’s nothing so malformed that it can’t be reformed. C’mon, hop into my cop car — I’ll let you ride along with me today, as I answer distress calls. Perhaps you might learn something.”

So Mary Shelley’s Creature half-heartedly moped out of the Caucasus Mountains and took a seat on the passenger side of my police vehicle.

“My name’s Officer Bryan Ray,” I said, offering my hand to the Creature, “I work for the Eagan Police Department.”

Shelley’s Creature shook my hand without meeting my eyes, and the youth remained silent; so I said: “I’m pleased to meet you. Are you pleased to meet me?”

The Creature frowned and murmured: “I guess so.”

“Well then you should say it,” I said. “That’s called being polite. Most people will return whatever good cheer you offer them. If you sport a bad attitude, folks will remain mistrustful of your character. You probably unintentionally worsen your woes by acting so gloomy and downcast all the time. Here’s what I say: Stop being resentful. What do you have to complain about? You’ve been given the gift of life. THAT is a miracle. Now, shall we take our first distress call?”

The Creature’s mood seemed to lift a little, and he answered: “Alright.”

So I picked up the corded microphone of the citizens band radio and pressed the “Push to Talk” button: 

“Officer Bryan reporting for duty,” I said in my formal voice. “I’m here with Mary Shelley’s Creature — he’s just a little child: I’m bringing him on a ridealong today, in hopes that it’ll instill some decent values into the fellow. (I don’t want him continuing down the path that he’s currently on, which shall lead to a life of crime, due to his misshapen appearance coupled with the fact that no one dares to be his friend.) So what type of adventures do you have for us today?”

The voice on the citizens band radio came crackling out its speaker, saying: “I’m sorry, but, there are actually no crimes in progress, at the moment. Everything is calm. Russia and Ukraine have made amends with each other; the U.S. has voluntarily quit the business of war-profiteering and made peace with the rest of the globe — yes, even China — and all countries have simultaneously eliminated their nuclear arsenal and disbanded their militaries, including all the espionage agencies. So it’s a slow news day. Please convey my sincerest apologies to your ridealong friend — I’m afraid his trip will be rather uneventful.”

“Ah, no worries,” I answered into the microphone; “it’s good to hear that all is well with the world. It’s a welcome change of pace. I’m sure I’ll be able to find something edifying for me and Mary Shelley’s Creature to do.”

I replaced the microphone in its holder and looked at the Creature and said: “Well, how do you like that? Just when I wanted to demonstrate for you how evildoing offers no reward, the entire universe stops committing unlawful acts! — I guess it’s up to you: What do you wanna do now?”

The Creature reached for the passenger door handle after unbuckling his safety belt and said “I guess I’ll return to my hill.” (I’m assuming he meant the Caucasus Mountains.)

Thrusting my arm out, I grabbed his greatcoat and pulled him away from the door, while exclaiming: “No, don’t leave yet. Let’s at least spend the day together, like we planned. Reattach your safety belt; I’ll drive out to a poor neighborhood — there’s bound to be some crime happening there.”

So Mary Shelley’s Creature fastened his seatbelt back on, and we drove to the most impoverished area of the inner city.

“Look there,” I pointed while driving past a high-rise building; “it seems like something suspicious is going on.”

The Creature stared intently in the direction I had indicated; then he answered: “It appears to be a gathering of regular people. I can’t discern the questionable activity that you say might be occurring.”

“Let’s move in and confront the suspects,” I said. Then we pulled up alongside the group, and I shouted out of the window: “Excuse the interruption. I just wanted to wish you a good morning.”

“Good morning,” said the people who had congregated outside the high-rise.

There was an awkward spell of silence; then I said: “What were you talking about, before we showed up?”

The group looked generally confused. Then one of the men among them said: “Are we legally required to answer you?”

“Oh, no,” I said, still talking from the pilot side of my cop car, with Mary Shelley’s Creature in the passenger seat; “I was just asking to be courteous. I was following the Golden Rule — for I said to myself ‘If I were standing outside my residence and talking with some friends, I would appreciate being greeted by any passerby, especially a police officer; and I would gladly relay to them the contents of our conversation — but that’s just me: I’m a motormouth; I love interacting with others. If you’re uncomfortable opening up to me, that’s no problem at all — I’ll move on and leave you folks to your business. Like I said, I was just trying to establish healthy relations between law enforcement and the local community.”

There was another silence after I spoke. But eventually one of the women in the group raised her voice and said: “We were just discussing the recent weather. We were remarking how cold it has been during this last week.”

“Ah, yes,” I shouted out the window (this group of people was far enough away from my squad car that I needed to raise my voice slightly to address them); “it has been surprisingly chilly, lately, indeed. I was hoping for temps in the forties and fifties; yet, instead, it’s remained below freezing, in the tens and twenties!”

This seemed to warm up the crowd. Another of the ladies in the group now shouted back in a friendly voice: “We were also just chatting about how important it is to beautify things.”

I looked over at the Creature, who had been silently observing our exchange hitherto. The Creature returned my look, and I said to him in an undertone: “Do you want to join in on the talk? Go ahead — the floor’s yours.”

Mary Shelley’s Creature then shouted out the window at the group of folks gathered in front of the apartment complex: “What do you mean by ‘beautify’?”

The woman who had used this term took a second to think; then she yelled out her answer: “Oh, it’s like, we all have basic needs, right? Food, clothing, shelter? Well any of us could just accept the lowest form of substance that would satisfy each of these needs; but it’s far better to render things attractive — to add flair, style, exuberance: to fancy things up. Like, for instance, you could satisfy your need for food by simply eating oatmeal, unsweetened, all day every day. But it’s better to enjoy high cuisine, like the kind the Italians make. And, as far as clothing, you could get by with cutting some holes in a potato sack, to cover your nakedness; but it is nicer to wear a finely tailored suit, like the kind the Italians make. Lastly, for shelter, if you pile up logs in the shape of a cabin, like Abe Lincoln did, it might protect you from British elements for roughly a century — but it's far superior to build yourself a VATICAN, like the kind the Italians made.”

Hearing this wisdom, Mary Shelley’s Creature nodded in thanks to the speaker and then slowly turned his head to face me; and we stared at each other, blinking in contemplation for several moments; then the Creature and I, at once, made the facial expression that means: “We now know what we must do,” while exclaiming to each other in unison the maxim: “All roads lead to Rome.”

So we waved goodbye to our new friends while shouting a big “Thank you!” and drove our cop car to the Vatican in Italy. Then Mary Shelley’s Creature and I climbed out the windows of our vehicle and dashed into the building and arrested all of its inhabitants and tossed them in jail. We immediately began legal proceedings to seize the Vatican for our own use; and we succeeded, because we found an international judge who was willing to take our side; so she ruled in our favor. — Thus Mary Shelley’s Creature and I, Officer Bryan Ray of the Eagan Police, took over the Vatican and invited our best friend Quasimodo from Victor Hugo’s novel OUR LADY OF PARIS to live with us forever after. And we all wore fine Italian suits and ate the best food imaginable. 

Now Shelley’s Creature and Hugo’s Quasimodo and I began to worry that people would mistake us for the Christian Trinity, so we invited our sweethearts to come and stay with us — not in the guest rooms but in the main three bedrooms of the Golden Calf Suite, which is located in the Holy of Holies. So now we were SIX persons in one headquarters, instead of just three. And our sweethearts’ names were Robyn, Cayenne, and Mascara-glitter. 

The first thing we did with our newly gained power was formulate a mystery for ourselves to resolve. (We just wanted a fun activity to do.) So we posited the question: How lazy and irresponsible can we all act, as a collective of creators, while still passing off our creations as capital-‘a’ Art?

Thus, to begin engaging with this enigma, Mary Shelley’s Creature and I enrolled in the Official Art College, along with Victor Hugo’s Quasimodo and our respective sweethearts Robyn, Cayenne, and Mascara-glitter. And the teachers taught us how to make good Art. 

So the six of us formed a collective called The Bryan Ray Art Police, and we produced masterpieces and attributed them to a single imaginary personage who became our corporate brand, called “Tertius Radnitsky”. And we signed all our artworks with that name. 

So the first thing we did was paint a mural in frescoes which depicted nudes dancing and playing on the shoreline. We used one of the Vatican’s interior walls for our canvas. Then we offered this up to the Museum of Posterity, and its curators accepted it. They displayed the mural in a place of great honor. (We paid for the wall to be removed and relocated with care, by twelve battalions of construction workers.)

“Alright,” I said to Mary Shelley’s Creature, “that idea went well. The Museum bought our painting for a large sum, and the future truly loved it. Now, how can we streamline this process, so that the six of us can work less and daydream more?”

Shelley’s Creature thought for a moment, then he said: “Why don’t we just paint one streak of oil on a flax canvas, frame it, and call that our masterpiece.”

I looked over at Mascara-glitter and asked “What do you think?”

“I love the idea,” she said. “Let’s do it, right now.”

So we make our oil-streak painting and titled it “Composition 2”, and signed it with our collective’s name: Tertius Radnitsky. And the Museum accepted it with enthusiasm. The curators displayed it on one of the walls in its Abstract Art wing.

“That was excellent!” said Victor Hugo’s Quasimodo, as we all celebrated our second success with champagne. “Our idea seems to be working. For we labored many months on that initial mural; but this follow-up piece only took us half a day.”

“We’re really making progress,” said Cayenne, smiling. Then she sipped her drink.

“Alright, but what’s next?” I addressed the whole gang, as we stood there enjoying caviar in the Vatican. “I honestly can’t fathom how we might strip down the creative process even further than what we managed to do with our most recent Radnitsky project.”

“I have an idea,” said Quasimodo.

Silence followed this remark.

“Yes?” I said. “What’s your idea, Cue—please say it!”

“Lose the frame,” said Quasimodo, “and the canvas and paint.”

The other five of us looked at each other as if to say “Why did we not think of that!” Then Robyn cried:

“Wait — if we eliminate every single element of our proposed artwork so that the piece ends up invisible, then how will the Museum of Posterity even understand what we are offering unto them?”

“Hmm, she has a point,” said Mary Shelley’s Creature. “Maybe we should just admit that we’re in over our heads, this time. I say that we bite the bullet and hire a consultant.”

I nodded sadly and replied “I second that notion. Does anyone know any Professional Artistic Consultants?”

“I do,” said Cayenne. And she handed us a business card that read: 

Ray Mutt / “There to help!”

We all gathered around to look at this printed name. Then Mascara-glitter looked up at me and asked: 

“Is there any relation to you, Bry?”

“No,” I said. “My last name is his first name; that is all.”

So we called up Mister Mutt and he came to the Vatican and had a meeting with TershyRad Inc., our artistic collective. 

“If I understand you correctly,” said Mister Mutt, “you’re thinking about creating a work of art that is made of nothing. Now, that’s totally fine — go ahead and do that, if you want to. But the whole reason I’m here today is that you’re paying for my services in consultation; so let me give you my idea: I say, maybe just keep the frame. Abandon everything else — the canvas, the paint — but keep the frame. That way, at least the people who look at your artwork will understand that there’s INTENTIONALLY nothing to see; and then they might start pondering this provokation. However, if you jettison the frame along with everything else, then what’s left to grapple with? People are liable to start looking around at the actual world that surrounds them and realize that EVERYTHING IS ART — and you don’t want that.”

I stood up and shook Mister Mutt’s hand and said, “Thank you for your opinion.” Then I handed him his check and said, “Here is your fee; paid in full. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my collective and I would like to talk this over in private. Thank you so much for providing us with your services.”

After making sure that the check was for the right amount, Mister Mutt said “Anytime! — I’m here to help!” Then he left the room bowing repeatedly and walking backwards.

Once the fellow was gone, I draped my arms around my friends Quasimodo and Mary Shelley’s Creature, and I looked over at our three beloved sweethearts and said: 

“That Mutt was nice, but I don’t like his idea of turning in a blank frame. Why don’t we just grab some money from the Vatican coffers, take a trip down to the hardware store, and purchase a plumbing fixture: We could then sign our name on the item, and call that our artwork?”

Cayenne stood up and exclaimed: “That’s a brilliant idea.”

So, to be fair, we all did a blind vote by secret ballot; and my suggestion was unanimously approved. Thus we went out and bought a kitchen sink; then we used a permanent marker to sign our name “Tertius R.” over the lower right-front corner, while making sure that we were not holding the object upside down. And we had this work delivered to the Museum, and they accepted it enthusiastically and displayed it prominently.

“Great job, everyone,” we all high-fived each other; “yet another success!”

Now, having realized that we could simply use any preexisting object as our next masterpiece, we began to wonder if we’d reached the limit of Fine Art. 

“Why don’t we retire?” said Mary Shelley’s Creature. “It’s dignified to stop while one is ahead.”

“Wait,” said Mascara-glitter; “hold that thought — I just got a bright idea.”

“What is it?” said Victor Hugo’s Quasimodo. “Pray tell.”

After Mascara-glitter finished explaining her idea to all of us members of The Bryan Ray Art Police, I replied: “That is a truly genius concept; I agree that it would be a misstep to attempt our earlier idea that we backed away from — the idea about offering an artwork of absolute nothingness to the Museum — but this new idea that you just posited, Mascara-glitter, tickles my fancy. You struck upon the only endeavor that a collective can engage in which is an atom’s length away from actual nothing: And I am in total agreement — we should follow your suggestion and compose a TEXT, and offer that up! That’s really stripping things down to the surd. That’s holding a mirror to the abyss.”

So we all hired monkeys to sit for two hours at a stretch, for many generations, before keyboards at computers; and they eventually ended up with a manuscript: 

It felt like a story — it even bore a strong resemblance to our actual lives as a wandering troupe of artistic Police Officers who live inside the Vatican… But, sadly, when we tried to palm this off as a work of art, the Museum declined — it was our first-ever rejection. So, at long last, we answered our original question and solved the mystery. 

CONCLUSION: While everything may be art (with a lower-case ‘a’), only select phenomena can be all-caps ART. For a work to be truly accepted by all future ages, it must bear the owner’s name someway in the corners; so that we may see it and remark whose property it is. Text is too easily transferable — it has no owner, no clear locale in time and space — it is too close to pure nothingness (anyone with a mind can possess raw text); and therefore Cop Tales cannot be labeled Art.