Monkeyangelo
By Erin N. Price
My name is Banghi, and I am an artist. My favorite artist is Michelangelo. So, I call myself Monkeyangelo.
I paint pictures of my feelings using colors and swirls. I love to paint more than anything in the world.
Every morning my zookeeper, Barbara, feeds me. I don’t eat a lot because I get impatient to paint. I eat a little and wait for my mate, Satscho, to finish. Then Barbara comes back and places a palate of paints, a brush, and a canvas inside my cage. I can’t wait to start.
But every day Satscho says, “Banghi, you silly monkey! Monkeys don’t paint! Monkeys eat and sleep and climb trees. Only humans can be artists. Stop trying to be a human!”
And he rips up my paintings.
Sometimes Barbara saves my paintings in time, before Satscho can rip them up. I know Satscho loves me, but he doesn’t understand. One day he’ll see that I am a real artist.
Today, when Barbara gives me my paints, I can’t wait to begin. I imagine the color of fresh bananas. I think of the rush of the wild jungle. I feel the sunny feeling I get when children smile at me. I swirl the paint up and down, round and round, colors and colors and colors. I love this painting most of all.
I proudly show the painting to Satscho.
“I don’t understand what this painting is about,” says Satscho, shaking his head. “You silly monkey!”
I hang my head. I love to paint, but no one else likes my paintings, not even Satscho.
Barbara arrives and takes the painting. “Banghi,” she says. “I’m going to sell your painting. You’re going to be an artist!”
I look at Satscho and smile. “I told you so,” I say. Now people will finally know I am a real artist!
The next day, Barbara gives me a big smile from between the bars of the cage.
“Banghi,” she says. “I sold one of your paintings to a museum. You’re a real artist!”
I hoot and holler and run around.
“Congratulations,” mumbles Satscho.
I’m so excited by my newfound fame that I paint and paint and paint, and Satscho doesn’t rip up a single painting. He just watches me with interest.
A few days later, Barbara comes to feed us, and she is laughing her head off. Her head is thrown back and she’s laughing up a storm.
“Banghi,” she says when she can breathe. “You were found out! The art museum thought you were a human artist. They had no idea you were a monkey!”
Barbara hoots and hollers and runs around. She’s going bananas. I don’t think it’s so funny. What’s wrong with being a monkey? I am an artist.
“Don’t worry, Banghi,” says Barbara as soon as she can catch her breath. “I got the painting back.”
Barbara hangs up the painting next to our cage, where it greets the world. I’m a little sad.
“It’s okay,” says Satscho. “I thought your painting was pretty good.” He gives me a hug.
The next day, a little girl looks at my painting. She says, “Look, Mommy! The monkey painted that!”
“Monkeys can’t paint,” says her mom.
“Yes she can! She’s a real artist!”
I smile at the girl, because she’s right. Human museums may not be ready for me, but I am happy with my work. And so is Satscho. And so is one little girl.
I am a monkey, and I am an artist.
Banghi is a real monkey, and a real artist. She lives in Halle Zoo in Germany with her mate, Satscho. She likes to paint, but doesn’t have much work saved, since Satscho rips up most of it. In 2005, the director of the State Art Museum of Mortizburg, Dr. Katja Schneider, thought one of her paintings was the work of abstract artist Ernst Wilhelm Nay. There you have it—a real monkey and a real artist.