How Jeremy Bentham Finally Came to America, Nearly 200 Years After His Death

Mental Floss
Mental Floss

One day toward the beginning of March, an unusual object arrived at a New York City airport. Carefully encased in a foam-padded, specially built wooden chair and strapped in with a bright-blue sash, it was the stuffed skeleton of one of Britain's most famous philosophers—transported not for burial, but for exhibition.

"We all refer to him as he, but the curator has corrected me. I need to keep referring to it," says University College London conservator Emilia Kingham, who prepared the item for its transatlantic voyage.

The stuffed skeleton belongs to the philosopher Jeremy Bentham, who died in 1832. But for well over a century, his "auto-icon"—an assemblage including his articulated skeleton surrounded by padding and topped with a wax head—has been on display in the south cloisters of University College London. Starting March 21, it will be featured in The Met Breuer exhibition "Like Life: Sculpture, Color, and the Body (1300–Now)," marking its first appearance in America.

While the auto-icon has sometimes been seen as an absurd vanity project or memento mori, according to Tim Causer, it's best understood as a product of Bentham's trailblazing work. "I would tend to ask people to reckon with the auto-icon not as macabre curio or the weird final wish of a strange old man," says the senior research associate at UCL's Bentham Project, which is charged with producing a new edition of the philosopher's collected works. Instead, "[we should] accept it in the manner in which Bentham intended it, as a sort of physical manifestation of his philosophy and generosity of spirit."

EVERY MAN HIS OWN STATUE

Engraving of Jeremy Bentham by J. Posselwhite
Engraving of Jeremy Bentham by J. Posselwhite

Bentham is best known as the founder of utilitarianism, a philosophy that evaluates actions and institutions based on their consequences—particularly whether those consequences cause happiness. A man frequently ahead of his time, he believed in a world based on rational analysis, not custom or religion, and advocated for legal and penal reform, freedom of speech, animal rights, and the decriminalization of homosexuality.

His then-unconventional ideas extended to his own body. At the time Bentham died, death was largely the province of the Church of England, which Bentham thought was "irredeemably corrupt," according to Causer. Instead of paying burial fees to the Church and letting his body rot underground, Bentham wanted to put his corpse to public use.

In this he was influenced by his friend and protégé Dr. Thomas Southwood Smith, who had published an article called "Use of the dead to the living" in 1824. Smith argued that medical knowledge suffered from the limited number of bodies then available for dissection—the Crown supplied only a handful of hanged criminals each year—and that the pool of available corpses had to be expanded to allow surgeons more practice material, lest they begin "practicing" on the living.

From his earliest will, Bentham left his body to science. (Some scholars think he may have been the first person to do so.) But he also went one step further. His last essay, written shortly before his death, was entitled "Auto-icon; or, farther uses of the dead to the living." In it, Bentham lambasts "our dead relations" as a source of both disease and debt. He had a better idea: Just as "instruction has been given to make 'every man his own broker,' or 'every man his own lawyer': so now may every man be his own statue."

Bentham envisioned a future in which weatherproofed auto-icons would be interspersed with trees on ancestral estates, employed as "actors" in historical theatre and debates, or simply kept as decoration. The point, he felt, was to treat the body in terms of its utility, rather than being bound by superstition or fear.

"It was a very courageous thing to do in the 1830s, to ask yourself to be dissected and reassembled," Causer says. "The auto-icon is his final attack on organized religion, specifically the Church of England. Because Bentham thought the church had a pernicious influence on society."

Sketch of Jeremy Bentham's corpse laid out for dissection
"The Mortal Remains" of Jeremy Bentham laid out for dissection, by H. H. Pickersgill

There was only one man Bentham trusted with carrying out his last wishes: Smith. After a public dissection attended by eminent scientific men, the devoted doctor cleaned Bentham's bones and articulated the skeleton with copper wiring, surrounding them with straw, cotton wool, fragrant herbs, and other materials. He encased the whole thing in one of Bentham's black suits, with the ruffles of a white shirt peeking out at the breast. He even propped Bentham's favorite walking stick, which the philosopher had nicknamed "Dapple," in between his legs, and sat him on one of his usual chairs—all just as Bentham had asked for.

But not everything went quite according to plan. The philosopher had asked to have his head preserved in the "style of the New Zealanders," which Smith attempted by placing the head over some sulfuric acid and under an air pump. The result was ghastly: desiccated, dark, and leathery, even as the glass eyes Bentham had picked out for it during life gleamed from the brow.

Seeing as how the results "would not do for exhibition," as Smith wrote to a friend, the doctor hired a noted French artist, Jacques Talrich, to sculpt a head out of wax based on busts and paintings made of Bentham while alive. Smith called his efforts "one of the most admirable likenesses ever seen"—a far more suitable topper for the auto-icon than the real, shriveled head, which was reportedly stuffed into the chest cavity and not rediscovered until World War II.

The preserved real head of Jeremy Bentham
Jeremy Bentham's preserved real head
Matt Brown, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

Smith kept the auto-icon at his consulting rooms until 1850, when he donated it to University College London, where Bentham is often seen as a spiritual forefather. It has been there ever since, inside a special mahogany case, despite rumors that students from Kings College—UCL's bitter rival—once stole the head and used it as a football.

"His head has never been stolen by another university," Kingham confirms. Causer says there is reason to believe the wax head was stolen by King's College in the 1990s, but never the real head. The football part of the story is particularly easy to dismiss, he notes: "We all have human heads, and kicking them doesn't do them much good, particularly 180-year-old human heads. If anybody kicked that, it would disintegrate on impact, I think." (Kingham also notes that the real head is not decomposing, as is sometimes claimed: "It's actually quite stable, it just doesn't look like a real-life person anymore. The skin is all shrunken.")

Another beloved myth has it that the auto-icon regularly attends UCL council meetings, where he's entered into the record as "present but not voting." Causer says that's not true either, although fiction became reality after the auto-icon graced the council meetings marking the 100th and 150th anniversary of the college's founding as a nod to the legend; it also attended the final council meeting of the school's retiring provost, Malcolm Grant.

FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE

Jeremy Bentham's auto-icon
Thomas Southwood Smith and Jacques Talrich, Auto-Icon of Jeremy Bentham. UCL Culture, London

Bentham always wanted to visit America; Causer says he was "a big admirer of the American political system" as the one most likely to promote the greatest happiness for its citizens. But before he could accomplish in death what he failed to do in life, UCL had to mount a careful conservation operation.

The first step: a spring cleaning. The conservation team at UCL removed each item of clothing on the auto-icon piece by piece, holding carefully to the delicate areas, like a loose left shoulder and wrist, where they knew from previous x-rays that the wiring was imperfect. After a detailed condition report and an inspection for pest damage (thankfully absent), the team surface-cleaned everything.

"The clothes were quite grubby because the box that he's sitting in, it's actually not very airtight," Kingham says. A vacuum with a brush attachment took care of surface dirt and dust, but the inner items required a more thorough clean. "We determined that his linen shirt and also his underwear could do with the wash, so we actually washed those in water. It was quite exciting saying I've been able to wash Jeremy Bentham's undies." The wax head was cleaned with water and cotton swabs, and occasionally a little spit, which Kingham says is a common cleaning technique for painted surfaces.

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Kingham's team rearranged the stuffing around the skeleton, plumping the fibers as you would a pillow. The stuffing around the arms, in particular, had started to sag, so Kingham used a piece of stockinette fabric to bind the area around the biceps—making them look more like arms, she says, but also reducing some of the strain against the jacket, which threatened the stitching.

But the most labor-intensive part of the preparation, according to Kingham, was devising a customized padded chair for the auto-icon's transport. Their final creation included a wooden boarded seat covered in soft foam that had been sculpted to hold the auto-icon lying on its back, knees bent at a 90-degree angle to minimize stress on the pelvis—another weak point. The auto-icon was bound to the chair with soft bandages, and the whole thing inserted into a travel case. The wax head was also set inside a foam pad within a special handling crate (the real head will stay at UCL, where it is currently on display), while Bentham's regular chair, hat, and walking stick got their own crates.

"We had originally joked that it might be just easier to buy him a seat on the plane and just wheel him in on a wheelchair," Kingham says, laughing.

The special chair constructed for transporting Jeremy Bentham's auto-icon
UCL Culture

Luke Syson, the co-curator of "Like Life," says it was touching to watch the stick and hat emerge from their travel boxes, even if the auto-icon's special chair did look a bit "like how you would transport a lunatic around 1910—or indeed 1830."

Reached by phone just after he had finished installing the auto-icon, Syson says he wanted to include the item as part of the show's emphasis on works of art made to persuade the viewer that life is present. "This piece really sums up so many of the themes that the rest of the show looks at, so the use of wax, for example, as a substitute for flesh, the employment of real clothes … And then, above all of course, the use of body parts." And the auto-icon isn't the only item in the show to include human remains—when we spoke to Syson, he was looking at the auto-icon, Marc Quinn's "Self" (a self-portrait in frozen blood), and a medieval reliquary head made for a fragment of Saint Juliana's skull, all of which are installed in the same corner of the museum.

Syson says he was initially worried the auto-icon might not "read" as a piece of art—worries that were dispelled as soon as he installed the wax head. "The modeling of the face is so fine," he says. "The observation and expression, the sense of changing personality … there's a lovely jowliness underneath his chin, the wrinkles around his eyes are really speaking, and the kind of quizzical eyebrows, and so on, all make him really amazingly present."

And unlike at UCL, where the auto-icon sits in a case, viewers at the Met are able to see him on three sides, including his back. "He sort of springs to attention on his chair, he's not sort of slumped, which you couldn't see in the box [at UCL]."

Those who have worked with Bentham's auto-icon say it encourages a kind of intimacy. Taking the auto-icon apart, Kingham says, "you really do feel a closeness to Jeremy Bentham, because you looked in such detail at his clothes, and his bones, and his skeleton." The wax head, she says, is particularly lifelike. "People who knew him have said that it's a very, very good realistic likeness of him," she notes, which made it both eerie and special to handle so closely.

"This is both the representation and the person," Syson says. "We've been calling him 'Jeremy' these last few months, and he's sort of here, and it's not just that something's here, he's here. So that's an amazing thing."

Nearly 200 years later and across an ocean, Jeremy Bentham's auto-icon has arrived to serve another public good: delighting a whole new set of fans.

Celebrating Amanda Crowe, Famed Native American Woodcarver

U.S. National Archives and Records Administration, Wikimedia Commons // Public domain
U.S. National Archives and Records Administration, Wikimedia Commons // Public domain

Amanda Crowe created remarkable works of art with just a mallet and chisel, transforming blocks of wood into bears, raccoons, deer, moose, and owls. The late Eastern Band Cherokee Indian woodcarver, who died in 2004, is being celebrated in today’s Google Doodle.

A video featuring images of some of Crowe’s works was released in recognition of Native American Heritage Month. The musical accompaniment was composed by her nephew, William “Bill” H. Crowe, Jr., and the video highlights some of Crowe’s best-known quotes.

“I carve because I love to do it,” Crowe once said. “The movement of the grains—they almost seem alive under your hands—and the beautiful tones and textures all add life to the figures you whittle.”

Crowe was born in the Qualla Boundary, North Carolina on July 16, 1928, and her uncle started teaching her how to carve wood when she was just four years old. She later commented that she was “barely old enough to handle a knife” when she first started learning, but she clearly had a knack for working with her hands.

After honing her craft throughout her childhood and teen years, she was offered a scholarship to the Art Institute of Chicago. There, she studied various media—including plaster, stone, and metal—but she always gravitated toward wood. Crowe went on to earn a master’s degree and spent some time in Mexico studying with Spanish sculptor José de Creeft.

When she finally returned home to the Qualla Boundary, she spent the next 40 years teaching art at Cherokee High School. According to Google, she is often credited with helping to restore interest in Cherokee carving—an ancestral tradition and a unique art form. Her carvings have carried her legacy around the world, having been displayed at museums in the U.S., England, Germany, and beyond.

35 Happy Little Facts About Bob Ross

Whether or not you’re artistically inclined, there’s a good chance that you—like millions of other people around the world—have been captivated by Bob Ross’s instructional landscape paintings and soothing voice. On what would have been Ross’s 76th birthday, we’re sharing 35 facts about the happy little legend.

1. HE KEPT AN ALLIGATOR IN THE BATHTUB AS A KID.

A lifelong animal lover, Ross was always rescuing wounded animals and nursing them back to health. As a kid growing up in Florida, this meant one rather strange addition to the family: an alligator, which he attempted to nurse back to health in the Ross family bathtub. Even in his adult life, Ross was always playing host to orphaned and injured animals, including an epileptic squirrel that lived in his empty Jacuzzi.

2. HE WAS AN AIR FORCE MASTER SERGEANT.

Ross’s quiet voice and gentle demeanor were two of his most iconic traits, which makes the fact that he spent 20 years in the United States Air Force and retired with the rank of master sergeant all the more surprising. Basically, he was the guy who told everyone else what to do.

3. HE USED TO BE QUITE THE YELLER.

Before he lent his dulcet voice to The Joy of Painting, Ross spent a lot of time yelling. "I was the guy who makes you scrub the latrine, the guy who makes you make your bed, the guy who screams at you for being late to work,” Ross once said. “The job requires you to be a mean, tough person. And I was fed up with it. I promised myself that if I ever got away from it, it wasn't going to be that way anymore."

4. BEFORE HE PAINTED HAPPY LITTLE TREES, HE PAINTED PANS.

While stationed in Alaska during his stint in the Air Force, Ross indulged his creative side by painting his now-iconic landscapes onto golden pans, which he sold for $25 apiece. Today, they can fetch as much as $7500 on eBay.

5. HE WAS INSPIRED BY BILL ALEXANDER.

From 1974 to 1982, German painter Bill Alexander hosted an art instruction show on PBS, The Magic of Oil Painting, where he shared his “wet-on-wet” oil painting technique. Ross discovered the series while working as a bartender, and became an immediate fan of the artist. He ended up studying under Alexander, who became his mentor. In fact, Ross dedicated the first episode of his own PBS show, The Joy of Painting, to Alexander. “Years ago, Bill taught me this fantastic technique,” Ross told viewers. “And I feel as though he gave me a precious gift, and I'd like to share that gift with you.”

6. WHEN ALEXANDER RETIRED, HE APPOINTED ROSS AS HIS SUCCESSOR.

In the early 1980s, as Alexander was preparing to retire, he asked Ross to take over teaching his painting classes. Ross agreed, and set out to tour the country on his own in a motor home, traveling and teaching people Alexander’s “wet-on-wet” technique. He told his wife Jane that he’d try it out for one year, and if he didn’t make enough money, he would return to Alaska.

7. HIS SIGNATURE PERM WAS AN ECONOMICAL CHOICE.

It was during Ross’s time on the road that he adopted his iconic hairstyle. Since teaching painting wasn’t an extremely lucrative profession, Ross learned to stretch every penny. One way he did this was to save money on haircuts by getting his locks permed.

8. ROSS HATED THAT HAIRDO.

Though Ross reportedly hated the permed hair, he was a businessman first, which is why he kept it. “When we got a line of paints and brushes, we put his picture on,” Bob Ross Company co-founder Annette Kowalski told Mental Floss. “The logo is a picture of Bob with that hair, so he could never get it cut. He wasn’t always happy about that.” 

(You can see what he looked like without his trademark perm here.)

9. HE WAS “DISCOVERED” BY ONE OF HIS STUDENTS.

Though it was Alexander who got Ross started on his career path as an artist, it was Kowalski—one of Ross’s students—who put him on the pop culture map. Kowalski, who is often credited as the woman who "discovered" Ross, took a five-day instructional course with Ross in 1982, and quickly became enamored with his calming voice and positive messages.

In addition to newfound painting skills, Kowalski left the class with a new client: she became Ross’s manager, helping him broker the deal for The Joy of Painting television show with PBS, and later, a line of Bob Ross art supplies.

10. HE WORKED FOR FREE.

The Joy of Painting ran new seasons on PBS from 1983 to 1994, so even at public broadcasting rates the show must have made Ross quite a bit of loot, right? Not quite. Ross actually did the series for free; his income came from Bob Ross Inc.

Ross's company sold art supplies and how-to videotapes, taught classes, and even had a troupe of traveling art instructors who roamed the world teaching painting. It's tough to think of a better advertisement for these products than Ross's show.

11. HE COULD FILM AN ENTIRE SEASON IN ABOUT TWO DAYS.

How did Ross find the time to tape all of those shows for free? He could record a season almost as fast as he could paint. Ross could bang out an entire 13-episode season of The Joy of Painting in just over two days, which freed him up to get back to teaching lessons, which is where he made his real money.

12. THE JOY OF PAINTING WAS A WORLDWIDE HIT.

In addition to being carried by approximately 95 percent of all public television stations across America, reaching viewers in more than 93.5 million homes, The Joy of Painting was a hit outside of the U.S. as well. The show was broadcast in dozens of foreign countries, including the United Kingdom, Germany, Belgium, Switzerland, South Korea, and Turkey.

13. HE WAS PARTICULARLY BIG IN JAPAN.

The Joy of Painting was a big hit in Japan, where it aired twice a day. (His voice, however, was dubbed.) On a visit to the country, Ross was reportedly mobbed by fans.

14. ROSS LIKENED HIS POPULARITY TO A DRUG ADDICTION.

"We're like drug dealers,” Ross once said of the popularity of his painting technique. “Come into town and get everybody absolutely addicted to painting. It doesn't take much to get you addicted.”

15. VIEWERS LOVED HIM. FELLOW ARTISTS? NOT AS MUCH.

Though he was undoubtedly a pop culture phenomenon, the art world didn’t exactly embrace Ross. “People definitely know who he is," Kevin Lavin, a “struggling” painter, told The New York Times in 1991. "In his own way, he is as famous as Warhol.”

"It is formulaic and thoughtless,” sculptor Keith Frank said of Ross’s work in the same article. “Art as therapy."

“I am horrified by art instruction on television," added Abstract Expressionist Richard Pousette-Dart, who passed away the following year. "It's terrible—bad, bad, bad. They are just commercial exploiters, non-artists teaching other non-artists."

16. SOME ART SUPPLY STORES KEPT ROSS’S PRODUCTS AT A DISTANCE.

The New York Times paid a visit to Pearl Paint Company, an art supply store in New York City, where an employee pointed to the “happy little corner" where they kept Ross’s products. "We hide them," he admitted, "so as not to offend."

17. ALEXANDER WASN’T THRILLED WITH ROSS’S SUCCESS.

Bill Alexander was one of the artists who wasn’t thrilled with Ross’s success, even though he had been his protégé. “He betrayed me," Alexander told The New York Times. "I invented 'wet on wet.' I trained him and he is copying me—what bothers me is not just that he betrayed me, but that he thinks he can do it better."

18. HIS HAPPY LITTLE COMMENTS WEREN’T AD LIBBED.

Though part of Ross’s appeal was his conversational tone, none of this talk of happy accidents or other happy little things was ad libbed. “He told me he would lay in bed at night and plan every word,” Kowalski once said. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

19. HE WAS MISSING PART OF HIS LEFT INDEX FINGER.

Though you’d never know it from his painting technique, not all of Ross’s digits were intact. He lost part of his left index finger when he was a kid in a woodworking accident while working with his dad, who was a carpenter.

20. HE RARELY PAINTED PEOPLE.

While trees and wildlife often helped bring Ross’s paintings to life, he rarely painted people. In fact, he liked to keep his work as people-free as possible.

“I will tell you Bob’s biggest secret,” Kowalski told FiveThirtyEight. “If you notice, his cabins never had chimneys on them. That’s because chimneys represented people, and he didn’t want any sign of a person in his paintings.”

21. HE KEPT A TINY SQUIRREL IN HIS POCKET.

The Joy of Painting regularly featured a rotating cast of happy little animals, with a tiny squirrel named Peapod probably getting the bulk of airtime. According to Ross, Peapod liked to sit in his pocket.

22. NOT MANY PEOPLE ACTUALLY PAINTED ALONG WITH HIM.

Though The Joy of Painting was a beloved series, people didn’t seem to be watching it to learn how to be the next Picasso. It was once estimated that only 10 percent of viewers were actually painting along with Ross.

23. HE REALLY DID LOVE TREES.

In 2014, FiveThirtyEight did a statistical breakdown of Ross’s work on The Joy of Painting and found that 91 percent of them included at least one tree—by far the most popular element. (And if he painted one tree, there was a 93 percent chance he’d paint a second one—though he referred to any additional trees as “friends” on the show.)

24. HIS SON, STEVE, PREFERRED LAKES.

On a few occasions, Ross’s son Steve subbed for his dad as a guest host. That same data set discovered that Steve liked happy little lakes: 91 percent of Steve’s paintings featured one (as opposed to Bob’s 34 percent).

25. HE MADE THREE COPIES OF EACH PAINTING YOU SEE IN THE JOY OF PAINTING.

Ross shot 403 episodes of The Joy of Painting and made three near-exact copies of each painting per episode. The first copy always hid off screen, and Ross referred to it while the cameras rolled (none of his on-air paintings were spontaneous). Ross painted a third copy when filming finished. This time, an assistant would stand behind him and snap photos of each brushstroke; these pictures went into his how-to books.

26. HE DIDN’T GET A WHOLE LOT OF INTERVIEW REQUESTS.

For all his worldwide popularity, there aren’t a lot of interviews with Ross. It has nothing to do with the artist being publicity-shy—it’s just that people rarely asked. “I never turn down requests for interviews,” he once said. “I’m just rarely asked.”

27. HE WAS AN MTV PITCHMAN.

For all his hokey-ness, Ross was cool enough to be asked to be a pitchman for MTV—which he deemed “The land of happy little trees.”

28. NINTENDO HAD PLANNED A SERIES OF BOB ROSS VIDEO GAMES.

Though some thought it was an April Fools’ joke, Nintendo had plans to create a series of video games based on The Joy of Painting. Unfortunately, the project ran into production problems pretty early on, so we’ll never know what might have been.

29. THE JOY OF PAINTING IS GREAT FOR INSOMNIA.

In 2001, Bob Ross Inc. media director Joan Kowalski told The New York Times how people almost seemed embarrassed to admit that Ross’s voice was the perfect solution to insomnia. “It's funny to talk to these people,'' she said. ''Because they think they're the only ones who watch to take a nap. Bob knew about this. People would come up to him and say, 'I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you've been putting me to sleep for 10 years.' He'd love it.''

Even today, Ross has become an ASMR star: On the ASMR thread on Reddit, “Bob Ross” is listed as a common trigger. A video of Ross painting a mountain has a staggering 7.65 million views, with others regularly surpassing 2 or 3 million views. Of course, not all of those are ASMR viewers, but a mounting online presence suggests they certainly deserve some of the credit.

30. HE DIDN'T SELL HIS PAINTINGS.

In a 1991 interview with The New York Times, Ross claimed he'd made over 30,000 paintings since he was an 18-year-old stationed in Alaska with the Air Force. Yet he was not one to hawk his own work. So what happened to them? When Ross died of lymphoma in 1995, most of his paintings either ended up in the hands of charity or PBS.

“One of the questions that I hear over and over and over is, ‘What do we do with all these paintings we do on television?’ Most of these paintings are donated to PBS stations across the country,” he said. “They auction them off, and they make a happy buck with ‘em. So if you’d like to have one, get in touch with your PBS station, cause … we give them to stations all over the country to help them out with their fundraisers.”

31. ROSS’S VAN WAS ONCE BURGLED OF 13 PAINTINGS.

The fact that Ross didn’t try and turn a profit from his own work doesn’t mean that you can’t find one for sale. At one point, more than a dozen of his paintings hit the black market when someone stole 13 reference paintings from Ross’s van during the show's second season.

32. HE HOPED TO DEVELOP A CHILDREN’S SHOW ABOUT WILDLIFE.

In the early 1990s, Ross was looking to branch out from art and had an idea for a kids’ show called Bob’s World, where he planned to go out into nature and teach kids about wildlife.

33. IF YOU HAPPEN TO FIND YOURSELF IN FLORIDA, YOU CAN CHECK OUT SOME OF HIS ORIGINAL WORKS.

The Bob Ross Art Workshop in New Smyrna Beach, Florida is a must-visit destination for Ross die-hards: In addition to offering art classes in Ross’s method, you’ll find a collection of the artist’s original paintings.

34. YOU CAN VIEW MORE THAN 400 OF HIS WORKS IN ONE PLACE.

Two Inch Brush—named after Ross's brush of choice for the wet-on-wet technique—is an unofficial database that organizes all 403 paintings from The Joy of Painting by season and episode.

35. HE IS A FUNKO TOY.


Funko

In August 2017, Funko released a vinyl figurine of the iconic artist/television personality. It depicts Ross dressed in his trademark jeans and button-down shirt, holding a painter’s palette. Sadly, it doesn’t come with any miniature paintings of "happy little trees."

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