Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Art is the most miserable bitch I’ve ever known. I fell in love with the narcotic joy of making art before I got laid for the first time. I also fell in love with that, but art has always meant more to me. In early adolescence, when I first realized how much I enjoyed indulging myself creatively, I decided immediately that art is what my life would be about. I haven’t changed my story since. Everything in my life that’s not my art is just an accessory to it. Unfortunately, the art world doesn’t feel the same way about me. I pour and pour myself into it but get very little in return. I’ve sold a total of one painting, ever. I don’t even know who bought it. I don’t know how well they’ve cared for it or if it means anything to them. I’ve done my share of exhibitions - 35 to date - with two more coming up. Those who like my work always seem to really like it. I suppose it’s just a bit too raw to look right hanging over a couch or fireplace. My work probably won’t match your décor. My work has nothing to do with video games or comic books. My work isn’t academic. My work has nothing to do with important social causes or virtuous ideals. It won’t make you smarter or morally superior to anybody else. My work is time, weight, solitude, and suffering, manifested as wood and paint. If you don’t get it, I don’t care. If you don’t like it, you’ve got bad taste. I’m going to continue pouring. I will be quite content to throw my life away chasing this ungrateful bitch. The act of artistic creation is humanity laughing in the face of its own mortality and finitude. Art is an obscenity in church and that’s why I love it. It represents a triumphant rejection of lesser gods. Art is my religion.