Have been feeling that I have a problem I need to solve, but I don’t know what the problem is. Too much like everything I turn my thoughts to. But it centers in my making art because that touches on everything else–all inclusive. Yet if ask myself, in what way or form, I come up blank because at the root of that part of the problem is the sense that making art is without any meaning or importance I can think of or articulate, multiplied by the conviction that this is in itself, unimportant and the making of art should be sufficient–but isn’t, because we live in such a fucked up world doing so much hurt to one another and our fellow creatures and anything close to ‘art for art’s sake,’ or as ‘personally sufficient therapy’, is so wrong, undermining the very generative source of the creative imagination–which leaves me with this compulsion to keep making art with no idea why or where it’s going or what it’s for, and believing that it’s not necessary to know that, and yet it is, very much so.
Something like that goes through my mind every time I finish a piece and ask–is this what I wanted? Did this piece answer the need I felt to make it, or did it fail that need? And of course, it always fails the need, so I have to sort what that failure consists of, which part is aesthetic, and which i can address in the next thing I take up, and which parts belong to this other multiplying fractal of of uncertainty I feel compelled to solve.