Dear Mr. Stella,

Since you sent me away, I’ve thought of a few things I’d like to say to you. Don’t get me wrong, I generally like my existence and I appreciate the time you took to make me. But I have a few complaints.
First of all, I deeply question your choice of home for me. My co-workers are nice enough, but they go on and on about themselves. One work won’t shut up about how ingenious it is that they’re a photograph of a photograph. That hasn’t been hipster since Leonardo Dicaprio did it. Another never lets us forget how famous both their creator and their model are. Talk about a name dropper. Honestly, if someone wants to see a picture of Marilyn Monroe over and over again, they can open a magazine. Another thinks they’re the most controversial piece of their time, because apparently throwing in one Confederate flag is the farthest anyone’s ever pushed the envelope.
I don’t blame the other artworks for being defensive. These days if you’re not the Mona Lisa, you’re boring and derivative. The Mona Lisa doesn’t even have eyebrows. Okay, I don’t have eyebrows either. Or a face, for that matter.

My second complaint would be the patrons I seem to attract. Since you created me, they are undoubtedly your responsibility. I’ve heard there are intelligent people in this world, but none of them come around here. I don’t think you fully understand the pure torment of spending your days being gawked at by old ladies and third grade classes who couldn’t even spell Van Gogh. Everybody looks at me and says, “I could have done that.” Really? If they could have done that, then why didn’t they? That’s right. They didn’t think of it. That’s the beauty of me. I’m what everyone could have done but only one person thought of.

I’d like to say a word about the guards hired to protect me. They’re all a bunch of paranoid hipsters. I know they all must have liked me and the others before they started working here, but standing around in the same white walled room everyday and shouting at whatever snot-noised kid gets too close to me seems to have driven them insane. They follow people too, staying two steps behind them the entire time they’re in the room, as if the person is some delinquent whose life goal is to ruin thousands of dollars of work nobody cares about.

I know there’s not much you can do about my current situation, but I was thinking maybe I could come live with you again. I want to be near someone who truly understands me as I’m told only your creator can. I liked hanging in your studio with your other creations. I felt like I belonged there, more than I ever will in the outside world where flashing lights and moving pictures have rendered me obsolete.

Best wishes,
Harran II