2025.035

It's one of those days where I am actually getting shit done. But does it get tough writing so much about other people's paintings when I barely have time to think about my own paintings? It's especially tough when I have to write about mediocre art. Working for a gallery means you have none of the freedom an art critic has–– singing praises while maintaining the illusion of objectivity is peak craft. The meaningful part of it is getting to represent the true philosophy of the artist & provide the narrative that is most precise for the artist's benefit. Complications arise when the artist is dead–– family members & foundation/estate board members with insatiable appetites for the battle of i-knew-him/her/them-so-much-better-than-you contesting all that you write will make you a tiny bit suicidal. Art critics are free from this crap because their obligation is to observe what the artist was actually capable of, not what the artist intended or believed or assumed. So my job gives me perspective albeit not so clear, on how things could go when I die. Best case, an art school graduate with good intentions, moderate reading & research skills, & crippling journalistic instincts to write what she believes in would produce a glib about my life & art. People with higher education & paychecks would tell her to switch some adjectives to make me sound more important. My husband, if he is still alive, would read it over & say this isn't accurate or intelligent because he can. After all that he had to endure from being my muse for decades (aka compromising his peace & beauty to deal with my hysteria, manic obsessiveness, & neurotic sensitivity to light/color/jokes/tone of voice/etc), that is his right. The art school graduate would find herself in a desultory state–– once again humbled & injured by the confirmation of her lack of power in most things. She would revise her writing after reading more self-obsessed, borderline pornographic writings I addressed to my husband. "An esoteric yet gem-like epistolary" she may say, as she quotes me on "your cock as hard as a diamond I saw when I first walked into Tiffany's" & paints me as a feminist hero with feminist sexual desires for submission & feminist ego to talk about it loudly & feminist paintbrush to paint a lot of male crotches... a fully illustrated monograph will hopefully go for at least $120 a pop...