Too difficult
Art
My work has been deemed difficult. I am honored. I am here to think, write and scream about it. I naively thought art was/is meant to raise questions and present complex thoughts, at least the art I have always appreciated. I hope it is still true, but I am in a great deal of doubt about it all now. I have come to a dead end. I hit that wall I was always afraid of, smashing my head into many pieces against it. End?
I tore many of my drawings yesterday. Stashed away in corners and folders under the bed and on top of closets. Some of my works on paper have not seen the light of day for years. I had a moment of calculated rage as I emptied one of the large cardboard box folders onto my apartment floor and went to work. I am not sure I felt anything. My hands worked in a rhythmic motion of tearing paper, each drawing into four separate pieces. Is this the work now, to destroy? Have I started disappearing? The folder was emptied, a new stack appeared on top of a chair. I sat across it . The aesthetic pleasure of this stack, with visible remnants of my hand marks felt like a triumph, a pleasant residue. I immediately decided to keep it for a sculptural experiment.
Years of toil hidden in a somewhat colorful stack. I enjoy this. Stacking discarded, thrown, found and now, torn elements. Hours later, a sadness descends, along with a cold November New York Saturday evening. Am I circling my own making, unmaking the doing, redoing the making? Sacrificing or simply clearing out of existence, preparing for a certain death? My thoughts rage and race as I rummage through another large folder, full of paper. Memory floods my brain, as I pick up random works, suddenly unable to tear them, shoving them back into the safety of a cramped storage device.
Not yet, not yet, not yet I whisper under my breath, entranced by the soft weak light and city noise outside my windows. Not yet. Let me begin, once more. What am I doing here, if not eternally hoping? Hoping, wishing, waiting, dreaming, longing on repeat. Simmering in my own juices of ambition, fear, anger, defeat and wavering self belief, my naked core sizzles and bursts. Under the veil of New York night, I fall into stupor of screens, ideas and concepts. Once more, I try. Once more.