What's Veeptopus All About?
Have you ever found yourself staring at the wall, stressing out about how to fill that gnawing void? Has the starkness of your office cubicle given you angst? Do you feel adrift in a meaningless universe, struggling to make some form of connection?
If you've answered 'yes' to any of these questions, then perhaps the art at Veeptopus is right for you.
I'm Jonathan Crow and the art on this site sprang from my fevered mind.
I've always loved making art. I was that kid in the back of the classroom who was more interested in doodling than taking notes. I once drew a cartoon for the school newspaper that got me bawled out during a faculty meeting. That was a successful cartoon.
For much of my life, I always picked the 'safe' career path, which usually meant pointless graduate degrees and prolonged corporate jobs. But then in 2013, I was suddenly sprung from my corporate shackles and I haven't looked back.
I make art that reimagines American history, politics and mythology through my particular lens – from pictures of every single vice president with an octopus on his head to an increasingly baroque series of President William Taft and a badger to a drawing Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
Admittedly, Veeptopus isn't for everyone. But if you are someone who likes the art on this site, consider the value of owning a Veeptopus print.
Here are some quotes from some actual Veeptopus collectors:
- "This print makes me smile every time I walk past it. So great!”
- "Who doesn't want a picture of the Notorious RBG with a robotic arm? A high-quality print from a talented artist!"
- “This was the best investment I made this year.”
If you're interested, sign up for my mailing list.
If you're not quite sure, scroll down and keep reading!
Art is way more important than people realize. Owning a Veeptopus print or three can improve your life and even possibly save it.
Consider these three scenarios:
You’re at work. Your boss is getting that weird nervous tick again and that always spells trouble. You know you’re going to get swamped and you’re going to miss that thing you really wanted to go to tonight.
You want to stand on your desk and say that you are something more than a worker bee pouring over endless case studies or actuarial tables. You have interests. You have passions. You have opinions about whiskey. You like reading really, really long biographies on Winston Churchill. You read too many blogs on politics. And you can quote long sections from Monty Python, a talent that proved to be less impressive to the opposite sex than you hoped back in high school.
At that moment, life feels pretty grim.
Then you look at your favorite Veeptopus print – a picture of Joe Biden with an octopus on his head. He has a big, dopey grin on his face, content with his tentacle-y lot in life. Soon you’re smiling too.
You met Dave two years ago at grad school orientation and you’ve been dating ever since. Lately, things have been getting serious so you decided to move in with each other.
Yet you’re worried. Dave’s previous pad looked like cross between a frat house and a raccoon warren. You just signed for a really cute apartment in a neighborhood filled with pilates studios and cold-press juice shops and you’ll be damned if the place is covered in neon beer signs and Stephen Curry posters. You want your new place to reflect your new, mature personality – classy, bookish and maybe just a little off-kilter. A French movie poster here. A bunch of succulents there. As the day of the move draws near, you dread having a potentially ugly conversation with the man who might, possibly, be the love of your life.
Then he gives you a gift for your second anniversary – Veeptopus prints of all three of FDR’s vice presidents with octopuses on their heads. With tears in your eyes, you know that he’s the one. And in a year’s time, you make sure to put Veeptopus on your wedding registry.
You just moved to a quaint little New England town famous for antiques, autumn foliage and witch burning. You managed to get an insanely cheap house with brushed-steel kitchen appliances and subway tiling in the bathroom. And it’s even walking distance to the local farmer’s market.
The only problem is that it’s next to an old graveyard and a spooky old Victorian mansion. Your neighbor, Vladimir something, you never quite caught the name, rarely comes out during the day and tends to mutter ominously about a doomsday book and the coming blood moon. You tried to invite him over for wine spritzers but he never seems available. So you decide to try to be friendly to Mrs. Foster, the widow across the street. She always seemed rather standoffish in that New England sort of way and her car has a bumper sticker for a politician you find distasteful. You invite her over for drinks, your mother always told you to be neighborly, though don’t have much hope that you’ll have much in common.
So she comes over that night, and you have a somewhat awkward conversation over tea. When she excuses herself to go to the restroom, you glance outside and notice that the moon is red, Vladimir is laughing like a madman, and there seems to be an awful lot of commotion over by the graveyard.
Mrs. Foster returns gushing about how much she loves your Veeptopus print of President William Taft riding a Badger. All of the sudden, you find a newfound respect for your neighbor. You might not agree with her politics but you know that you can trust her. It’s a good thing too. Vladimir seems to have launched a zombie apocalypse. You hand Mrs. Foster a shotgun.
So you can see that a Veeptopus print can be invaluable finding meaning in the daily grind, finding true love and finding a key ally during a zombie attack. In each case, Veeptopus helps remind you who you would like to be and helps you find other members of your tribe. The Veeptopus tribe.