It’s been a while since I’ve made any sense. I’ve moved into what I call my xanax-junkie-happy-place. This leads to the inevitable question: are all artists substance abusers? It is a stereotype after all. But since I’m in pharmaceutical heaven, do I care?
If art (contemporary or otherwise) is a critique on life, then an artist must be a critic. I shit on critics. I piss on them. But then it gets confusing, doesn’t it? Here I am, elevated to a place in the clouds with my drugs and my critiques – scorning the critics of anything I do. Does that make me a hypocrite? Does it make me insane? Sometimes, I even wish that they would criticize me some more which would make me more important (and/or get me more exhibitions – though I wouldn’t really know what to do with them).
The act of exhibiting
1. Extravagant and conspicuous behavior intended to attract attention to yourself
2. The perverse act of exposing and attracting attention to your own genitals
Well. Need I say any more? In this context, my work would be my genitals (sometimes, that’s pretty much what it is) and I’d be really creepy (which I probably am anyway).
But it all falls apart when I think about it. This isn’t what I started out to become. However, maybe I was always some weird kind of fetishist/creep and so I wandered into making/producing/propagating art – and essentially, myself.
After a long hiatus, I’ve thrown myself back into looking at other people’s exhibitions (genitals! genitals!) and here I am again, arguing/fighting with myself. Recently, I went to a few but came back with nothing in my heart and mind. Perhaps people walk away from my work feeling the same. I’m human and so are they and we’re all (mostly) free individuals (I hope) and we all have opinions.
Recently, my brother tried to convince me that having an opinion is a disease. But is that a choice we have? There is no peace anyway, so why bother? Yelling “death to the establishment” doesn’t really get you anywhere. There is no escape. In the same way, there is no escape from having an opinion. It’s like a bad penny – keeps turning up (especially when you need a good penny or to shut up completely).
I haven’t talked much about the trials of my job recently. That’s mostly because I have no time to think about it – there is just too much to do. I still have an office assistant who is the devil’s reincarnation as a short, over-reacting, ample young woman. Ofcourse, it would help if she could draft a simple letter but that isn’t going to happen in this life-time. It might take a couple more before she figures it out.