Gary Busey, life artist. (via Getty)
Dear Mr. Franco,
I understand your recent essay in the New York Times about Shia LaBeouf has received a lot of criticism. Mostly from folks who need to put down the microscope and pick up a mirror. Because if anyone has a problem with James Franco, their problem isn’t with art, it’s between their ears. The crime in your mind is an inside job with an easy commute but lousy benefits.
A.R.T. stand for Any Random Thought. It’s my guiding principle and it only makes sense when you accept the fact that you’ve lost the plot and you don’t know squat. Art is the hood ornament on your car of creativity. And without an attitude of gratitude you’re headed nowhere fast with an EZ Pass.
I’ve been tore up from the floor up, beat up from the feet up, and was messed up till I fessed up that I’m an angel in an earth suit and I’d been wrong about Brussels sprouts my whole life. That’s the secret! Life gives you a pickle, give it a tickle. It's as simple as soup and just as delicious if your spoon’s big enough.
Every true artist knows that the odds are good that the goods will be odd. And James Franco helping Shia LaBeouf is proof that there is a wrench to fit every nut on God’s green Cadillac.