Years ago my friend S asked me one of the toughest questions of my life:
If you had to get married and your only choices for a husband were Thomas Kinkade and Jackson Pollock who would you choose?
As talented as Pollock was he didn’t seem like healthy relationship material. So I choose Kinkade, reasoning that he may make cheesy bad art but as far as I know he’s not insane and seems fairly unlikely to be verbally or physically abusive.
I was wrong.