I scanned an article somewhere recently, that said in times of great economic upheaval, artists flourish not financially, but creatively. The edict being one supposes, that freed from the constraints of commerce, the floodgates of Dionysian proportions are open. Given that I feel like I've been tapping the vein and catching the mainline to subconscious central for a few months now, I can concur that my creative spirit is high on the cocaine of the palettes whim, whilst I am literally on the bones of my skinny arse. Not for a want of the work however, no-nothing so more mundane than a stream of delinquent debtors, stretching my patience and my accounts to dust.
Even on such dark days, the small act of working a few strokes on canvas, on something as ephemeral as a snow flurry or a clutch of scrawls in my sketchbook can raise my Titanic, reminding me that I was born to be an artist. There go I but for the lack of a living.
What a treacherous year-the shows are wonderful,heady even, but the betrayal of never selling anything leads me gaping over the precipice of ever wondering if at 42, the dream isn't just that-a dream. When I wonder, does one come to the cul-de-sac end of realising the devils of ones own failure? Smell the bitter coffee of defeat? I imagine when rejection siphons the soul of its last vestige of hope.
I recall something of an in joke at one agency I once worked (although they all merge into each other now) which went something along the lines that when ever there was a shortfall for a decent strap line, the words: " Time for a change:" would be a well placed warhorse.
Indeed-food for thought, but not on the table.