The Savior of the “Happy Little Trees” to the Rescue… Again
It seems that Bob Ross’s happy little trees are not only growing in idyllic landscapes, but are now also being cleared to save American public television. In a move that combines pure nostalgia and a touch of philanthropic desperation, thirty of the works created by the iconic painter with the afro hair and silky voice will be auctioned. The stated goal is to defray the programming costs of those small rural stations that, surprise, suffered from the inevitable cuts in federal funding. Because, of course, what better way to sustain a public service than by selling art to the richest bidders? The irony that a service intended to be universal now depends on the benevolence of the art market is simply delicious.
Joan Kowalski, president of Bob Ross Inc., reminds us with a solemnity that we can almost feel that Ross “dedicated his life to making art accessible to everyone.” It is a statement so moving that it almost makes you forget that you now need a considerably large bank account to be one of those “everyone” who takes home a piece of their legacy. What a lovely way to keep your mission alive! This auction, they assure us, “ensures that his legacy continues to support the medium that brought his joy and creativity to American homes for decades.” Translation: The specter of his curly afro and his “happy accidents” philosophy will be used to plug the holes left by an administration that apparently considers culture a dispensable luxury. Isn’t it comforting?
The Auction Machine Starts Up
The auction house Bonhams, based in Los Angeles, will have the honor of starting this bidding parade on November 11. But don’t worry, dear collectors and remorseful tycoons; If they can’t make it to the West Coast, there will be more opportunities in London, New York, Boston, and of course online. Because in the 21st century, even the salvation of public culture can be achieved with a click and a credit card. Most laudable of all is that all profits will be donated to stations that use content from distributor American Public Television. It is such an altruistic gesture that it almost, almost, makes us ignore the fact that the system is so broken that it requires 40-year-old paintings to be sold to pay the electricity bill.
The central idea, they patiently explain to us, is to help the stations with licensing fees. Yes, those annoying quotas that allow popular shows to be aired like “The Best of Joy of Painting” (the show that made Ross famous, in an existential meta-loop), “America’s Test Kitchen,” “Julia Child’s French Chef Classics” and “This Old House.” Imagine the scenario: a small station in the middle of Nebraska, burdened by debt, being able to breathe a sigh of relief because a tycoon paid two million dollars for a landscape with a “happy” river. It’s like a modern capitalist fable, where art becomes the knight in shining armor who rescues the damsel in distress, which in this case is a cash-strapped television broadcaster.
One can’t help but wonder, in a fit of comically unnecessary speculation, what Bob himself would think of all this. Would you approve with a serene smile this use of your creations? Or would he let out one of his signature sighs while mixing a new shade of blue for the sky, wondering if it all comes down to money in the end? It is almost poetic: the man who taught that there are no mistakes, only “happy accidents”, is now the key to amending the “accident” of cultural defunding. His legacy, built on accessibility and calm, becomes a luxury product to keep afloat the institution that catapulted him to fame. Life, friends, has a sense of humor that is as twisted as it is clever.
So get ready for an auction season where the murmur of hammers will compete with the echo of Bob Ross’s voice encouraging us to paint “majestic mountains.” A spectacle as surreal as it is moving, where the inheritance of a quiet man becomes the golden lifeline for a fundamental piece of American culture. Because in these strange times, sometimes hope doesn’t come in the form of a government check, but rather a landscape of incredibly happy trees that someone, somewhere, is willing to buy for a small fortune.
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