Making art — working as an artist — is hard. Emotionally difficult and endlessly confusing. It shouldn’t be.

It’s not about making art, or being an artist; its abut making art and being an artist where the structures that connect us to one another, that give us a place in the social world, are tangled and broken. Endlessly subverted. It shouldn’t be like this–but it is.

I tell myself, that it’s not my fault. It’s not something I can correct in my self. Not a bad attitude I can fix. There is no ‘right place’ for what I do, for who I am.

Profoundly depressing.

11×14 Pen & India Ink, acrylic ink, watercolor. Click image to view full screen.