I used to be an artist. Or I really wanted to be. Up until last year it’s what I spent most of my time on for the last 25 years. I cultivated my weirdness and perversity with vigor and discipline, thinking that uniqueness and specificity would serve me best. It feels like it all backfired. Somehow I never figured out how to make things that are broadly liked. Or broadly hated.
I thought this daily practice would be good for me. A kind of journal or diary for this empty time of my life. I suppose it has been good. It feels over. But maybe not. It’s just hard to see that the sum of my life is a bunch of yellow squash pictures.
I could make a zine from this content later. For sure. It would need that — a second layer of consideration and criticality.
I feel like I’m crossing over into something else. It’s no longer a strength that I continue to make things without support or success. It’s becoming a liability, pathetic, a sad prophecy. It’s how I felt when I learned that Boyce never stopped painting and kept all of his canvases. Ugh.
How did I never figure out how to make things that were more appealing? I guess I thought that I would be important, and included because I had to be, rather than because I was popular. Miscalculation, self.