POOR ARTISTS p. 216
I cried when I red this, I wonder why. I think it’s probably because I agree with the artist, that all the crap around actually making art and selling it is not what it’s about but we continue running in the hamster wheel because we, artists believe, it might be the only way for us to sustain ourselves. We end up being so trapped in the “business” we forget why we wanted to make art in the first place. I feel trapped in this viscious circle of making as much as I can of everything, saying Yes to all the shows, workshops, exhibition opportunities, open calls. Making: paintings, whish will be dropped off while still wet hoping they might sell, films that might be sent to competitions, installations that might be exhibited…it’s too much and I’m not sure how to stop and decide what’s the most important. I feel lost. So sometimes I just prefer to pick up the kids and take them to after school stuff just to forget about the pressure of the art stuff for a little bit. I also need space: from my overwhelming mother, husband and their constant “advice” how to stop complaining and moaning, what to focus on with my art, how to live my life “better”. It’s like with their help comes the burden of being constantly told how to live my life better.
“I look at these paintings and I know they should not end up in galleries. They’d do better on bedroom walls or hung over couches. Pinned to the ceiling so there’s something to stare at other than concentric Artex lines.
They should be in hospitals, doctors’ waiting rooms; they should be sent in the post to continue slow friendships with the sick people I know across the solar system.
Return address: The Jupiter Residency. A sanctuary I’ve made for myself where there is no such thing as business cards and funding applications, and no curators selling snake oil. No art market, no critics, no meetings, no calendars – no time at all. Only me floating in crip time through a bunch of swirling gases, milk and taupe.”