THE
HAM SANDWICH
“I am ART !”
Now, when a ham sandwich speaks, it does so with an air of distinction. An air, which in most circumstances would be quite out of place, especially when one considers the situations in which a ham sandwich might be found, for example on a supermarket shelf or the interior of a lunch box. However, this particular ham sandwich had the great fortune to find its self being, as it would prefer to put it, “exhibited”.
Such a statement might sound quite ostentatious if in fact there hadn’t been an element of truth in the matter, but truth there was, though to imagine a ham sandwich gracing the walls of a provincial art gallery, although not quite impossible, would be in all practicalities, improbable.
No. The ham sandwich in question found itself displayed, between a croissant and a filled baguette, on the display counter of a rather chintzy café, the premises of which happened to adjoin a provincial art gallery, a venue popular with those in search of surrealism and a pot of rather dubious Earl Grey.
“I do feel quite at home,” remarked the ham sandwich as it lounged on a chipped Royal Albert plate.
The towering tea urn heaved a steamy sigh and resigned itself to the fact that today was going to be one of those days. Café Dali had a habit of adopting a surreal atmosphere, a peculiar experience which the tea urn put down to the adulteration of its water supply, a possibility given added credence by the distorted images reflected in its stainless steel fabric.
The croissant, peering from her shell, surveyed the ham sandwich with mild suspicion. Les Anglais were reputedly unpredictable and the last place she felt was at home. She had hoped to find some affinity with the filled baguette and confided in the tea urn about her desire, but the tea urn had huffed and puffed at the suggestion and informed her that the baguette, though having French origins, was in fact an American imposter evident, apparently, by a ridiculously overgenerous topping of pepperoni. The baguette, overhearing the comment began a chilled sulk, treating the croissant and tea urn with cool indifference.
“’Scuse moi,” ventured the croissant, “you say you are art?”
“Indeed,” replied the ham sandwich, “a work worthy of appreciation.”
“A work worthy of indigestion” sneered the baguette thawing from its sulk.
“A work…” continued the ham sandwich indignantly “…created by a restless soul to capture a moment of enlightened inspiration.”
“A bit of a one of then” retorted the baguette.
“I’d like to think so,” replied the ham sandwich, quickly turning the baguette’s acerbic comment to its advantage. “However, art is so ill defined these days it becomes quite a dilemma deciding what actually constitutes a legitimate claim to be regarded as an example of the medium. Therefore art has to be in the eye of the beholder. So it stands to reason that as I behold myself as art…I am the genuine article.”
The croissant, now glazed with admiration for the ham sandwich, sought to expand this new philosophical insight further.
“Oh monsieur, could I be art too?”
“Possibly madam, it’s all a question of desirability.”
“Aha, art is a reflection of greed,” quipped the baguette.
“Art is a reflection of originality,” replied the ham sandwich, a little ruffled. “Take Madam Croissant for instance. A common croissant curls to the left. Madam Croissant curls to the right. That makes Madam Croissant uncommonly uncommon, original, a work of art and desirable.”
There was a long silence whilst all four considered the profound implications of what had just been said.
“Oh woe is moi,” wailed the croissant, “an uncommonly uncommon, original, desirable croissant exiled from her rightful place in the cafés of the Louvre.”
“In my opinion you’re nothing but a fraud,” hissed the tea urn. “We get ham sandwiches in here every day of the week claiming to be art. Obviously relatives of yours from the same joint.”
“Yeah, how do you justify your claim to be art?” demanded the baguette.
The ham sandwich curled its crust in irritation. “I am…
Just then the first customer of the day approached the counter.
“Well just look at her,” whispered the tea urn. “Did you ever see anything like it?”
“So old a wrinkled, like an ageing canvass.” Muttered the baguette.
“With teeth so white and so much younger than herself, oh la la, what a picture,” murmured the croissant.
…desired!” exclaimed the ham sandwich. “Chosen. Selected. Singled out. Prepared to be appreciated. Farewell comrades. I am…consumed by art. I am…”
“Gone,” proclaimed the baguette.
“Well, that’s the end of him,” sighed the tea urn. “Perhaps we can all return to some sort of normality.”
“Oh but it is sooo sad to see a work of art destroyed,” sobbed the croissant, “however can such a masterpiece be replaced?”
“As easy as this,” said the waitress as she slid another ham sandwich between the croissant and the baguette.
“I am ART !”
“Oh no,” wailed the tea urn. “Here we go again.”
“Hush!”, snapped the waitress, “art is money.”
“I am ART !”
Now, when a ham sandwich speaks, it does so with an air of distinction. An air, which in most circumstances would be quite out of place, especially when one considers the situations in which a ham sandwich might be found, for example on a supermarket shelf or the interior of a lunch box. However, this particular ham sandwich had the great fortune to find its self being, as it would prefer to put it, “exhibited”.
Such a statement might sound quite ostentatious if in fact there hadn’t been an element of truth in the matter, but truth there was, though to imagine a ham sandwich gracing the walls of a provincial art gallery, although not quite impossible, would be in all practicalities, improbable.
No. The ham sandwich in question found itself displayed, between a croissant and a filled baguette, on the display counter of a rather chintzy café, the premises of which happened to adjoin a provincial art gallery, a venue popular with those in search of surrealism and a pot of rather dubious Earl Grey.
“I do feel quite at home,” remarked the ham sandwich as it lounged on a chipped Royal Albert plate.
The towering tea urn heaved a steamy sigh and resigned itself to the fact that today was going to be one of those days. Café Dali had a habit of adopting a surreal atmosphere, a peculiar experience which the tea urn put down to the adulteration of its water supply, a possibility given added credence by the distorted images reflected in its stainless steel fabric.
The croissant, peering from her shell, surveyed the ham sandwich with mild suspicion. Les Anglais were reputedly unpredictable and the last place she felt was at home. She had hoped to find some affinity with the filled baguette and confided in the tea urn about her desire, but the tea urn had huffed and puffed at the suggestion and informed her that the baguette, though having French origins, was in fact an American imposter evident, apparently, by a ridiculously overgenerous topping of pepperoni. The baguette, overhearing the comment began a chilled sulk, treating the croissant and tea urn with cool indifference.
“’Scuse moi,” ventured the croissant, “you say you are art?”
“Indeed,” replied the ham sandwich, “a work worthy of appreciation.”
“A work worthy of indigestion” sneered the baguette thawing from its sulk.
“A work…” continued the ham sandwich indignantly “…created by a restless soul to capture a moment of enlightened inspiration.”
“A bit of a one of then” retorted the baguette.
“I’d like to think so,” replied the ham sandwich, quickly turning the baguette’s acerbic comment to its advantage. “However, art is so ill defined these days it becomes quite a dilemma deciding what actually constitutes a legitimate claim to be regarded as an example of the medium. Therefore art has to be in the eye of the beholder. So it stands to reason that as I behold myself as art…I am the genuine article.”
The croissant, now glazed with admiration for the ham sandwich, sought to expand this new philosophical insight further.
“Oh monsieur, could I be art too?”
“Possibly madam, it’s all a question of desirability.”
“Aha, art is a reflection of greed,” quipped the baguette.
“Art is a reflection of originality,” replied the ham sandwich, a little ruffled. “Take Madam Croissant for instance. A common croissant curls to the left. Madam Croissant curls to the right. That makes Madam Croissant uncommonly uncommon, original, a work of art and desirable.”
There was a long silence whilst all four considered the profound implications of what had just been said.
“Oh woe is moi,” wailed the croissant, “an uncommonly uncommon, original, desirable croissant exiled from her rightful place in the cafés of the Louvre.”
“In my opinion you’re nothing but a fraud,” hissed the tea urn. “We get ham sandwiches in here every day of the week claiming to be art. Obviously relatives of yours from the same joint.”
“Yeah, how do you justify your claim to be art?” demanded the baguette.
The ham sandwich curled its crust in irritation. “I am…
Just then the first customer of the day approached the counter.
“Well just look at her,” whispered the tea urn. “Did you ever see anything like it?”
“So old a wrinkled, like an ageing canvass.” Muttered the baguette.
“With teeth so white and so much younger than herself, oh la la, what a picture,” murmured the croissant.
…desired!” exclaimed the ham sandwich. “Chosen. Selected. Singled out. Prepared to be appreciated. Farewell comrades. I am…consumed by art. I am…”
“Gone,” proclaimed the baguette.
“Well, that’s the end of him,” sighed the tea urn. “Perhaps we can all return to some sort of normality.”
“Oh but it is sooo sad to see a work of art destroyed,” sobbed the croissant, “however can such a masterpiece be replaced?”
“As easy as this,” said the waitress as she slid another ham sandwich between the croissant and the baguette.
“I am ART !”
“Oh no,” wailed the tea urn. “Here we go again.”
“Hush!”, snapped the waitress, “art is money.”