Monday, February 15, 2010
I’ve been showing my paintings for eight years now. In that time, I’ve done about 34 shows. Everybody loves my work. Other artists, gallery owners, the art-viewing public, critics, schizophrenics, drunks, and the homeless all think I’m great. Nobody ever buys my work, though. Nobody wants it in their living room above the couch. I drop it off at the gallery, or ship it to the gallery, and hang out at the opening. I socialize and answer everybody’s questions. I don’t say anything insane, offensive or frightening, which takes some restraint. The show stays up for its predetermined length of time, and at its end, I always have to orchestrate my work’s return. Pick it up or ship it back, apologize to the gallery owner for not making a penny for them the whole time my work was up, and store it away in the garage. My work keeps getting stronger. There can be no doubt that I do it because I love it. It’s for goddamned sure not for the money.