Art is found in Death, Underwear, and Rainbows. What is an artist? Everywhere.
Everywhere that humans make shit.
The science of theory and the art of synchronised platform diving.
Engineers can be artisans. Artifacts were manufactured goods.
I've been in a slump this week. I've been wallowing in everyday life. The notion of "awe" seems so . . . unreal, elite, pretentious, crazy, irresponsible.
Because my paintings are soundly constructed out of wood, you could easily form a shelter out of a few of them. All of my paintings contain a chemical known to the State of California to cause cancer, birth defects or other reproductive harm. Paintings are not food.
All we are left with is communication.
My slump manifests itself as the fulcrum between luxury and necessity.
Is it ok that a good painting is merely a temporary release? Fuck. Why is joie de vivre so dangerous (other than its disregard for future generations)?