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Expressive and gestural are the works that I create,
Formed with a lofty vision and a careful hand
Color and value seek each other as lost lovers
Texture is their favorite child.
What the hell am I writing about?
The purpose is the experience, not the product
What do they want from me?
I can't be the perfect artist I'm supposed to be!
I put my hands into images. I stir them up.
I am not unique. Everything has been done before.
What is the point of doing it all over again?
What are my influences? Can I make them my own?
Art History: Da Vinci is a lot like me. Absolutely brilliant
couldn't get his ass together and do the work.
I've always admired the Renaissance artists, but
so has everybody else. I'm a cookie-cutter artist.
What good is an artist who is a carbon copy of every
other idiot to walk the earth?
I am the antithesis of an artist.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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