Wednesday, December 2, 2009

I've got some figuring out to do.

I am a writer. No, I am an artist. A concept artist. Or was it a printmaker? Didn't I love ink-stained hands? The impact of it all, the record of the print on my own body. My own body is the body of work? No, I paint. I love the texture when I paint. It is because I don't know how to paint. And fabric, don't even get me started on fabric. It is like paint, but fleshier, flexible; I could have a love affair with fabric. And sculpture, am I a sculptor? I swear I am not, but look at this 3 dimensional form presenting itself, I'm not going to flatten this out, am I?

3 comments:

  1. Stop it. You just make shit. Who cares what category it's in? And who the hell WANTS to belong to a category?! Just make stuff and let other people with too much time on their hands try to cram it into on of there silly categories.

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  2. THIS is why I love having you as an advisor. And I think that I will take you on as a "life advisor" when seminar is over.

    In unrelated news, does Joe (that is his name, correct?) have an interview Friday?!

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