Wittgenstein says, “We can only describe, we can’t explain.”
We are artists. We are all very different, but here is the world that I have been a part of for 8 years now. (Let me describe).
We do our jobs, the ones we need to pay the bills: we show up and look busy even when our minds are elsewhere, necessary tricks which no one teaches but we figure it out. Best laid plans were an illusion to begin with.
Artists need money, and we need to hate money. We need to argue and argue until we are tired. We need constraints, we need to be free.
We need the world to be coming to an end, something to end, so that we can be the first to tell everyone, chicken-little style.
We need images that make us feel alive.
Often, we need a father to kill, a penis to steal, a power structure to stab.
We need to look for something because we need the search. What is in front of everyone’s eyes is hidden to them; we see it, and live to reveal it.
We need time and space to experiment, and someone to love us, but we hate needing people.
We tend to make a mess.
We need to be left alone.
We need to hang out together, and complain and talk bullshit about our work, and breathe out our disdain, and suck in the nodding affirmations and “Yes!” to our pale floundering ideas.
We need ideas. And then we need better ideas.
Most of us need psychiatric help, and at some point, pharmacological support. We consistently need coffee, and many need cigarettes and most need alcohol and some need sex with a different person every night.
We stay in bed all day sometimes, we wander around at night. We need to be seen.
We need to make things. We need a place to make things.
We work hard to make things, paid or not, because most of need to believe …
and no one