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June 2019
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2003 Home is Where the Art Is

written for the Celtic News -
the Celtic Tenors printed Newsletter


Celtic Tenor Niall Morris manages to kick the habit of Art Addiction


There is nothing in this world worse than a bad painting. I should know. My many attempts would make even the most hardened art critic feel ill. You see, I have absolutely no artistic talent when it comes to pictures. Don't get me wrong, I have got an appreciation of Art. It's not as if I'm colour-blind or have any other such affliction. And I can redecorate a room with great confidence. I just simply can't draw to save my life. So, because of my overwhelming lack of artisitc abilities, I have an almost un-natural admiration for those who can do it. Draw me a picture and I'm yours. Colour it in and I'm yours for eternity.


A little while back,I started buying other people's artistic produce and surrounding myself with it. My belief was that these creative types might one day rub off on me and, by some kind of osmosis, I would in due course find myself amongst the artistic elite. Each morning, after a harsh black coffee, I would test my theory by spending a few minutes with pencil and paper to see if any magical artistic transformations had taken place during the night. I gave up almost immediately as my pictures showed no absolutely signs of improvement.


But though my lack of talent remained subbornly the same, my art collection continued to expand. Soon it had outgrown my house and I didn't have enough walls for all the pictures. I had become terified to open my credit card statements. It had reached the point of an addiction. Last month, for instance, I went to the annual exibition of Irish Art in Dublin and promised to export my sister's three children to a Siberian salt mine for five years' hard labour in exchange for a small piece of Irish Impressionism. My sister wasn't at all pleased when I told her and she still really misses the children. But such was my compulsion to acquire art and perhaps a little talent of my own that other things ceased to matter.


However, help was at hand. After years of research into art addiction, a major French pharmaceutical company has brought out a new and highly effective drug treatment. I take a small tablet each morning before breakfast and within a short space of time the compulsion has almost entirely gone. And because each tablet has on it a tiny reproduction of a well-known masterpiece, yesterday I swallowed Leonardo's Mona Lisa and today I popped Picasso's Blue Old Guitarist. Tomorrow will no doubt bring me some other great artistic surprise, maybe a Monet or perhaps even a Van Gogh if I'm lucky. These days I can walk confidently past any art gallery without batting an eyelid, knowing that I have had, at one time or an other, the entirely contents of The Louvre dissolving in my digestive system. I have become one with my Art and now I'm fine.