2016-06-28


I thought I would write today from work. At one of so many jobs in this freelance life. At the least the jobs are art related. But the ennui does reach me at times. This is the experience of most artists anyway. Even good artists oftentimes make no money with art. I've seen it countless times. So the guilt can be dropped.

But it doesn't bar me from dreams of making it: "making it", meaning, making good art and only making good art. I believe at this point I am mostly saved from the distraction of wanting approval outside of me. I still want to be respected though--who doesn't? But I also realize that is meaningless. Even respected well liked artists aren't guaranteed to make an imprint on historical memory--or at least the kind that is touching and astronomically beautiful.

I'm thinking a lot about posterity, the life of my work once I'm dead. Because art has a curious ability to live forever. So I am very concerned as of late with finished objects, my own imprint. And to much extent I am distracted with this wish of being memorable, as if I have a say. I think ultimately it's about having evidence that I mattered, at least enough to myself. And I believe to much extent I've deprived myself of this experience in showing up for myself. This is where the regret comes in. That is the deep sadness.

But I'm still alive and I'm producing. I just wish I had more time to make art and archive properly my artistic achievements. At this point, finishing work is an achievement.

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