I realize it may sound a little like a fortune cookie, but Art-like life-is an endless endeavor. Often, it means persevering whilst trying to ignore the ever diminishing voices. You know the ones ... the resume of failures, the unscaled peaks, the petty jealousies, the diminishing returns, the bank balance, the crows feet in the mirror that remind you it's another year. Sometimes you ignore them, sometimes you don't.
It can be a din in there, the unrealized dreams fighting for prominence against the reminder that there's rent to be paid, whilst stacks of unsold canvases line the walls, and the nights draw colder, longer and closer to Christmas.
Did Vincent burn canvas stretchers to keep warm I wonder?
Then there are the mornings, the battle with the fatigue of a restless night before, the cold, the umpteenth cup of tea, the news that the economy seems unsalvageable and Tracy Emin is now a professor of drawing, the what the fuck should I paint today, and what's the point anyway.
And then I walk into my studio and this is what awaits me.
Yes,it's a game of endurance, but its the only game worth playing.