Not that making art matters in this world… but I look at what I’ve done… and wonder: (the voice of my interlocutor/accuser.. the one who knows oh so much about “ART”, and how it’s valued… and disvalued) … so where is your signature? I see everything from street trash, to fine pen drawings… how is anyone to recognize you in this? Where you are? What you are doing?”
I got no idea. Is that something I should be thinking about–since I’ve no interest in “branding” my work? Is that a failure?.. that I’m too ADD, jumping from one thing to another?.. .no commitment to discipling myself to a set of recognizable ‘constraints?’
If I could only be, really, truly.. an outsider artist. But I’m not. I mean, I am.. but I’m not. I’ve been corrupted, ineradicable corrupted by my education, my training. Infected with an impossible desire to both be recognized for what I do.. within the tradition.. and for my refusal to enter the branding games of the galleries and gatekeepers of that same, exclusive and excluding tradition.
Neither this nor that. I have no place… in any place that has a name.