#303 84×58 acrylic, oil crayons, roofing paper, duct tape, plastic scrap on plywood
#302 15×15 cm pen & ink, watercolor on Aquaboard
#300 14×8 pen & ink, watercolor, acrylic
I think these 3 are ok. Maybe I’m really an artist? I know that sounds stupid of fishing for compliments, but it’s not about that. This is something internal.. a relentless interior dialog that plays over and over in my mind, in my dreams. And what does it mean, anyway? I ask? Post ‘posterity,’ when we are on the brink of human species suicide? And there’s no way in this capitalist empire of money and death, to find a place where what I do might be seen and appreciated, beyond a few intimate friends. But why does that matter? Isn’t that enough? Why can’t I do what my niece has been doing (160 new pieces in 3 months! and doesn’t care about anything but making art–no matter whether anyone else sees it). As much as I wish in my waking dreams that I could do nothing else–drop everything, just draw and make art–I can’t because I live in this fucking evil world and giving myself to that is part of–informs my art, even as it impedes it and crushes my desires to promote and distribute it. And am I really that good that I should devote so much emotional energy (such a waste!)! Am I even a real artist? And what does that mean, in this post-posterity world where it will all likely be lost, and no hope of future generations recognizing what I’ve done–as if, even if there were, my stuff would be worth saving…
…. you see what I mean?
And no, I can’t still that voice, or stop asking these stupid impossible questions, making these impossible demands on myself and my work–because that voice is but the agitated external manifestation of what drives me, of why I’m doing this. This is the static noise of the creative drive.