The first thing you can guarantee about Edward J. Funkuncle is that he’s most likely already ‘been there and done it’. The second thing you can assume is that he ‘did it well’, (at least, until the authorities stopped him). Never one to do things by halves, he can still boast of hunting wild boar in Africa or attending charity dinners at the White House during the Clinton administration. A remarkable feat for one in his twilight years.
 
Recently he has been brought back into the headlines through the publishing of his diaries and notebooks on the acclaimed website funkuncle.com. With the help of the technology-literate downstairs neighbour and his wayward son’s computer he has managed to bring his wit and charm to a whole host of new fans.
 
Starting from this issue onwards he has also agreed to give a little of his experience and advice back to the younger generation. So please let me introduce you to…

Funkuncle.

The world according to Edward J. Funkuncle, an old man who knows better than you.

I was talking to Bono the other day over a whisky and highball and he asked me, “Funkuncle, in all those years as a writer and artist, you never sold out. How did you maintain your integrity all that time?” Then he moaned, “I mean, the Edge and I, we’re constantly getting hammered by all those record execs wanting us to suck corporate-cock. If they had there way we’d have Bono action-dolls, Edge pinball machines, Adam Clayton pre-1985 fucking novelty wigs. It’s a nightmare! A constant battle to maintain some self respect.”

Bono, the poor kid. It can’t be easy for him. He said, “All I wanted to do was write simple heart-felt songs for the people… and then this media-world wind happened.”

Well I turned slowly to him, put my hand on his knee and I said, “Bullshit Bono! You didn’t just want to write songs! Be honest… you wanted fans! You wanted acclaim! You wanted raven-haired Sylvia Plath-fans rubbing up against you as you pushed your way through the crowd into your limousine… Okay, okay, I was being a little hard on him. He has helped relieve world dept after all. But I can’t help it. I guess even I get jealous sometimes.

The thing is, we can all learn from this. You don’t have to be an Art-iest. Even the meekest pencil-chewing retail clerk has to face the Bono-dilemma at some stage of their life. In the middle of the night we all have the same doubts: “Shit, shouldn’t I be doing something more worthwhile than selling Sum 41 videos to morons? Shouldn’t I be implementing that grand idea of mine, that multimedia-rockband-art-spoken-word-medicine-for-African-children-collective? And, of course, the answer is a resounding Yes!!! Yes, of course you should be, you Goddamn id-jut! There are a million ways you could create something to help people, inspire people, even save people’s lives. But, just like me, you can’t wrench yourself away from your cosy little cave-let long enough to do a God damn thing about it. You’re much too comfortable rubbing your face up against your Charles Eames chair, reading a Kerouac novel, or buying the latest New York-art-student-flash-in-the-pan-80s-throwback-one-good-song-rock album.

It reminds me of Vietnam. (Things always remind me of Vietnam.) Even out there in the shit, guys would take the easy way out, smokin’ pot or dropping acid for a quick high even if it meant they took a bullet in the ass.

And it’s kinda like that with art. Do I struggle every day in my drafty studio grinding down red clay to make my own paint because I can’t afford to buy it at a shop? Do I gradually learn my craft, stay true to myself, dredging up passionate, sensitive art from my broken and crippled heart? OR. . . Do I become famous and make a shitload of cash?

So you want to be a famous artist? Edward J. Funkuncle makes it easy.

Want to be a famous artist courted by the New York or London art establishment but you don’t have the time to mess around with annoying steps like practice, technique or integrity? It’s okay. These days it’s quite possible to find yourself at the best parties in town with only the scantest amount of work under your belt.

First of all you need a very simple, powerful and, most importantly, ambiguous art idea. Something stark, visual and iconic like say, a ball of wool in the shape of a coffin or a piece of toast nailed to a gallery wall. Next, take this simple thought and repeat it endlessly over several months or years. This step will convince people that your high-concept-art-toast-pinned-to-a-gallery-wall is really delivering on the mysterious and ambiguous meaning it seems to promise. They’ll say “Look at that guy. He’s made thousands of those fucking toast pieces! This stuff must be important! This guy means it. And if we had any doubts, well, look at this diatribe pinned next to it on the gallery wall. Read that shit there. I’ve never heard so many words in a row I don’t understand. What intellectual firepower! What depth! This is the future! Holy shit – give me three. Call Saatchi! Call the Tate! Call the MOMA! Invite Lars Ulrich. Invite Tom and Nicole! (No don’t! Well, not on the same day anyhow.) Certainly invite anyone rich! Like Jackie the Cat Woman down in Soho - someone with more money than they know what to do with, and damn fine taste too (since she’s a big fan of my work). Most of all, call the critics! Because here is some work that will really keep them employed! It’s so damn obscure you’ll need a crack-team of critics to tell people what to think. (After all, if it were straightforward and heart-felt the public might be able to figure it out themselves.) Then break out the goat’s cheese, canapés, champagne, cocaine, and anything else fun you can think of. Have a party.  More importantly, have a party with you at the epicentre. A retrospective. A festival even. A festival of you. What a blast.

Note of caution:

There is one downside to fast-tracking your art career in this manner. You will find, the day after your first exhibition, you’ll have to go back to your upper-west-side studio warehouse and make more of those fucking toast-on-a-wall pieces, which can seem a drag. Then again, pretty soon, when the cash begins rolling in, you’ll be able to employ a bunch of keen art students to do the actual pieces. It’s your concept after all. You’re way too big now for that actually making art stuff.

It’s a big question. A question of integrity. A question bigger than even Edward J. Funkuncle can answer. The kind of question you might ask yourself on your deathbed. The kind of question that might be put to you out on the old crossroads by the Lizard King himself. And out there, kids, you’re on your own. Out there, on the dusty plains of integrity, everyone has to answer for himself or herself. I may be wise and old, but sorry, I can’t help ya with this one. Your call.  I’ll leave you ta ponder it. . .

Meanwhile I’ve gotta get back to work. . . I have this idea where I take a piece of plumbing hose and then I make an exact replica of it, only seven stories high and made from children’s baby teeth. . . Bye now.

Regards,

Edward J. Funkuncle.

www.Funkuncle.com