You tell me, what does it matter?

Time to go into sleep mode. Whadeye do today to justify my existence?

I worked at making art.

I did drawing exercises… anatomy–working on the arm. I finished #178, made progress on another in that sort-of-figure series (like 176, 177)–on the tall pieces of plywood.

I try not to think past doing. Like.. what is going to happen to all these pieces? Where am I going to put them? I played out a fantasy as I walked to the wine store… getting a commercial gallery to give my stuff a show, and they make a bunch of money… and the gallery peeps tell me when i show them new pieces that seem to have no relation to what was selling–that I have to make more like the one’s in the show… it always ends on that kind of note. Different downer, but always, that going that route would be wrong, wrong, wrong. Why I refuse to sell

Fuck Capitalism!

..and not think past but I have this deep down thing about growing in what I’m doing. And I’m encouraged in the sense that, yeah… I am getting better.
But what does better mean? What does it matter? That’s what channels my dreams. If I could only admit that it doesn’t matter–but then… in saying that about my work, am I saying that ART doesn’t matter? So am I an artist? Is the stuff I’m making, ‘art?” If it is–if that’s what I’m doing–how can I say, it doesn’t matter? But then… the stuff I make, piles up, gathers cement dust in the basement. But then… the Universe doesn’t give a shit about us. And soon, the Sun will go Red Giant and consume all the inner planets. All it comes down to in the end.

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