What do you do when the thing that you absolutely must do just does you no good? It’s a nasty, expensive habit often bad for my heath and most definitely bad for my savings account. It’s worse than an addiction, really, because I can’t blame it on some externalizable chemical reaction. Damn that dna. It’s me. That contemptible tendency to make art.
Of late it seems that this tool I’ve fashioned and thrown out into the world & make some sense or just a way for myself seems to have boomeranged back upon me, fixing to cut me to ribbons. I could let it. Or I could bank on my last nerve and catch it.
Why all the bright colors? Why can’t I just paint things the way they “are”? well, I’m sorry that you can’t see bright fields of energy around people, but I do. Statements like “the way they are” I find ever more laughable each time I hear them. You want me to paint the way something IS on the inside or the outside? Who made our visual surface the deciding factor in what something IS? Who made you judge of the way “things really are”?
And the frogs? What’s with the amphibians, winged things, and half people? Well, those are self portraits, to. They outpicture part of me I have in common with the reptiles. The part of me where all the bad ideas, the knee jerk fear and strings of addiction hide. The part of me that might be better were I not too nervous to express it. They stand in for my disease.
Why? Why spend the time, and the money? Because, I’m going to try for yet another show. Because I just have to reach out and try one more time. Maybe this time I’ll assemble an exhibit that is so un-buy-able that even I’ll have to take it seriously. Maybe even I’ll be forced to stand up behind all of the images and words and confess that I am an artist.
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