No kidding. If the mercurial grays of May, felt more than tinted with post holiday blue, then this month has been obscured beneath the blackened cloud of financial instability and some pretty harsh kick in the teeth realities.
Sales have been dire, and I find myself falling on the sword of my resolution that I would make at least $500 from art a month.The truth has always been as sharp as a broken bone-unless you are an artist lucky enough to be adopted as a media darling or the splashy savant of some sniffy downtown gallery, then you forever teeter on the brink of bankruptcy. It seems to be my default, and as much as I press and I push to cut a swathe and redress the balance, the trad fucking stereotype of the artists garret looms like a terrible long September shadow.
Still, nobody has had the incredible presence of mind in this damned desert to rhyme die with July yet, so this next month may afford a different shade.
There is a potential exhibition I am considering, which may be the biggest thing I’ve done yet, but is something of a gamble, in that it requires the same boring old chestnut.
And then I have it on fairly good authority (or at least an email) that the printed issue of ‘I want your skull’ should be available this week.
Finally there is the art itself-I come so close at such hard times to calling it quits forever, making a pyre of everything and consigning myself to never painting another stroke. And then I remember that the interminable, terrible, need to create has nothing to do with money.
it never did.