I can't say I've spent a lot of time wondering what sort of person Thomas Kinkade is. Knowing that he's responsible for an apparently infinite number of paintings like this has always been more than enough for me:
(For those of you who have somehow missed the Kinkade phenomenon, these paintings are very popular -- sort of the Left Behind series of the art world. It's deeply disturbing.)
I might have predicted this:
""He approached [her] and he palmed her breasts and he said, 'These are great tits!' " Ernie Dodson, another Cote employee, told The Times, adding that he drank no alcohol that night. "I was just standing in the corner in amazement. It was like, holy cow!"
The woman whom Kinkade allegedly fondled confirmed to The Times that he touched her breasts without her consent. She spoke on condition of anonymity, saying she was embarrassed and concerned for her family's privacy.
Cote and Kopec said they also saw the alleged groping.
"She let out a yelp and backed away," Kopec said. "That's when I knew he had actually touched her.""
But I don't think I would have imagined this:
"On the eve of the broadcast, Sheppard said, he and Kinkade returned to the Disneyland Hotel after a night of heavy drinking. As they walked to their rooms, according to Sheppard and another person who was there, Kinkade veered toward a nearby figure of a Disney character.
"Thom wanders over to Winnie the Pooh and decides to 'mark his territory,' " Sheppard told The Times.
In a deposition, the artist alluded to his practice of urinating outdoors, saying he "grew up in the country" where it was common. When pressed about allegedly relieving himself in a hotel elevator in Las Vegas, Kinkade said it might have happened.
"There may have been some ritual territory marking going on, but I don't recall it," he said."
"Ritual territory marking"? On Winnie the Pooh? By someone whose entire oeuvre consists of treacle and cotton candy designed as paintings? Wolves everywhere are hiding their heads in shame, while Farley Mowat turns silently in his
grave um, bed*. Even Eeyore is, for once, unpleasantly surprised.
Apologies to Mr. Mowat, whose work I read (and loved) quite some time ago. He must have been very precocious, which doesn't surprise me. I am delighted to learn that as of now, he has no grave; long may it be so.