Some days I think there shouldn’t be statues of anyone… anywhere. Except maybe statues of dogs. But not Jack Russells. Or Chihuahuas. Or Pekingese. (I generally start turning the corner on useless breeds* at Wirehaired Dachshunds)
*says the ardent fan of the Basset Hound
But then I think what if someone would like to erect a statue of ME some day…. And how sad people would be if they couldn’t look upon my visage (in an Ozymandian sense) and… well… I have no idea what people would do around my statue. Maybe loiter. And use it as a staging point for… mischief. Gather at the statue of Saint Joey, from whence we will go forth…. and misplace our keys. And phone. And then forget why we came all the way out here.
Hmm. As racist statues go… this one is my favourite. (Outside one of my favourite buildings)
I love Teddy Roosevelt. He’s in my top five favourite humans. I like to give it a five person range so as not to appear to nail all my proclivities to the cathedral door all at once. (But really he’s my favourite) And because of this clear bias I’m less inclined to be empathetic towards peoples concerns about equal heights and who should get to ride the equine.
Of course statues come with a sliding scale. From generally reviled all way through to only mildly disliked by some… I realise that some people might be upset that in a society (where the mandated ideology is Fundamental Joeyism) that there aren’t enough cat statues.
I think I’d be okay with a statue of a Maine Coon. They are kinda like dogs. But those creepy hairless cats are definitely on some sort of banned-list.
Maybe we should rotate statues. That way everyone gets a turn to be upset about something. Have a warehouse… and then once a month, dust off some effigy of some deceased… eh… organism and let the pigeons defecate on them for a bit. Nothing says valued and appreciated member of society like the veneer of poop before you hit brass.
Postscript. When the time comes… even though I’m 6.3… I identify as 6.5… I’d like my statue to take this into account. Also (and I’m sure I’ve mentioned this somewhere else) I’d like to be wielding an ax (so as to satisfy my Danish tendencies)… maybe while being shot full of arrows.
I have this obsession with the Boromir redemption narrative in Lord of the Rings and how in his last moments he managed to do something decent. I wouldn’t mind doing something decent… you know… just before the end…