"Sometimes I desire something free but then I realise it’ll be just part of a genre just like everything else.
I start thinking ‘does it just then all boil down to taste?’ But that places too much pressure on me. I don’t really want it. I’d rather just be there and not even have to wear human skin. I want to be like a mist – and if that means I’m empty/void then so be it. What kind of company is an empty vessel? What kind of art, is an empty art?
If the pressure of conforming to gallery art “practice” remains how it is, then I should be a machine, a reliable commodity producer or a producer of a brand like everyone else (even the best) who are at the beck and call of the service industry and enjoy so much that art is not child’s play.
Regular discipline, commitment, dedication – a definable easy consummerbility brand – that is what the market appreciates – or that is what expectations want to be fulfilled. I fear that even my own fear will become something bogged down, the more I realise that it becomes my own stich. Perhaps even the culture will accept such an atmosphere of anxiousness…and then what? I’ll become a stagnant old artist like the rest of them – the “fear” artist. But even that isn’t true – because I don’t always fear, I lie too.
For now my mist exists within the perimeters of a social text or the state, and the economic exchange that we exist in. I do not forget that.
Trying to avoid affirmation is hard – you can even get too affirmative to subculture or Satanism or something subversive but an affirmation of that is all the same to me as someone else who believes in society, will or communitarian values.
My history is short, my time has no pledge to realism. They, my moments, remain disjointed full of different personality and emotion, often solitary, denying publicity and public display (unlike the one who seeks attention, applause and validation) – I hate it when people and things are on display – its so crass. Yet does not an artist only deal in display?
I live by way of contradiction, undercutting and forgery – every emotion I have ever felt is a betrayal – them being fleeting and temporal. I cant promise anymore – I know what it means to make one and for it to crumble in embarrassment. I know what an artifice of language it is to say “I love that” – I know that I can not sustain its reliability – my contradictions have taught me that. But I know what it means to panic.
But what of it? A knight of infinite passion? A knight of resignation? To be unto oneself? Ha! Not even they can vouch for it that’s why we read them posthumously that’s why no one cares anymore – they care more about cash money hierarchies and all that second order blah blah! Even if it is by its very nature a romantic ideal - at least when one says – what’s the stake? You don’t have a phoney answer such as challenging the limits of the medium.
When I look around me – I see all these worldly strategisations – they are all foolish, they are all faced with the delusion that some kind of beckoning does not exist. I see the fame getters and wanters, the ones who want money, acclaim, occultishness, power, grace, humour – I see it all and down-turn my eyes because I sometimes think “is that it??” I should want what they want instead of having unsteadiness and then a second order forgery happens – I start pretending to be ‘real’.
I want nothing on the first order. I don’t really care – I’ll forget it tomorrow, I promise. Will you accept the one who does not want? Will you accept the one who remains silent and witnesses without wanting to be part of the furore?
I don’t wish, I make occasionally, occasionally I write, I draw, I do my bureaucracy – I like the culture – but I wont wear it hard unless I fear which of course happens.
For what do I write? For whom? I shall not affirm my self or my death. I have no purpose but to float until the next fearing moment."
