Q: So, tell me a little about yourself.

A: I was born in a log cabin, and I cannot tell a lie. As a child, I walked five miles to school, usually in the snow. It was uphill both ways.

Q: I see. So...are you a famous artist?

A: I will be, once people find out that you’re collecting my work. Your collection is legendary.

Q: Well, I don’t like to brag. Tell me, why do you work in so many styles? Are you trying to find one you’re good at?

A: I'm good at all of them, according to my mother. Which style is your favorite?

Q: Oh, I'm like the guy in the James Thurber cartoon. I know all about art, but I don't know what I like.

A: Ask me a real question now.

Q: Sure. How did you get started as an artist?

A: I’ve always drawn pictures, of course. But I became a full-time professional artist in the early eighties, when I began illustrating children’s magazines. I’ve created over 200 magazine illustrations, along with stacks of cartoons and literally thousands of designs for advertising and marketing.

Q: Oh! You’re...an illustrator!

A: So?

Q: Well, there are people who claim that illustrators aren't actual artists.

A: Yes, and there are people who claim that Velveeta is cheese.

Q: It isn’t?

A: Listen: Prior to the late 19th Century, practically every artist was an illustrator. Rembrandt and Rubens and Caravaggio didn’t “express themselves” for a living: All the Old Masters were working guys who had to please whoever gave them money; and usually those people wanted to see an illustration—maybe a scene from the Bible, or the myths of ancient Greece. Or maybe a famous historical event. The distinction between "fine art" and illustration is pretty much a modern idea.

Q: I see. So they didn't have naked performance artists, pouring chocolate pudding on their heads to protest global warming?

A: Not too many. Of course, I do believe in taking full advantage of the almost unlimited artistic freedom that modern artists have. That’s why I jump from one technique to another, throwing out the rulebook every time I start a new picture. At the moment, I'm actually moving away from illustration and toward traditional gallery art. Someday, all of these experiments may merge into a single style—or maybe not. I don’t really care, as long as the work stays fresh

Q: I'm pretty indifferent, myself.

A: No more questions? Fine, then—

Q: Wait! There’s one: What the heck are giclées? I'm thinking they're some kind of chewy candy: "Yes, I'd like a large popcorn and a box of giclées!"

A: Oh, you're a riot. Giclées are sophisticated inkjet prints, worlds better than the prints you make on your printer at home. They're made on a printer that probably costs—oh, about the same as a Buick.

Q: With automatic windows?

A: No, giclée printers do not have automatic windows. Ha! 

Q: Hilarious. Anyway, I always figured you printed them by dipping a potato in ink. So you print a few hundred giclées, and—

A: No, I print nothing. Not until an order is placed.

Q: Gee, don't you even keep copies for yourself?

A: I don't. I'm a poor artist, and I can't afford me. 

Q: So if somebody orders a giclée, they'll own the only one like it in the world?

A: A buyer has the right to purchase exclusive ownership of any image. Otherwise, I do reserve the right to sell additional copies if people request them; but unless I do, yes: The image you buy will be utterly unique, like—oh, maybe the Taj Mahal.

Q: Or the world's largest ball of string?

A: I'm leaving.

Q: Wait! If I buy a picture from your gallery, will it be worth a million dollars someday?

A: There is absolutely no proof that this won’t happen. The question is, do you feel lucky?

Q: I do! And I’ll buy one today!

A: Good. Now please get rid of that horrible tie. 

(End of interview)

(Actual artist similar)