I am dry. I have run out of stuff to say. I am bored of most of this. I was going to describe the progress of the new gallery project, now called ‘PEEP!’ due to open next week but the whole thing is an unreal experience, hardly worth recounting. I bought the wood today after a false start on Monday when the industrial saw was broken. They only charged me for one board by mistake and I loaded the car very quickly and drove away feeling satisfied. This was after they had tried to overcharge me, which I quibbled. The teenager serving me was obviously not looking forward to another tirade, hence his error. This is the arts, it is a dog-eat-dog world. I am funding this entire project and so I am willing to overlook whether it was morally correct or not to effectively steal the wood. I think it a very grey area. My project will benefit the community and embolden the arts in the area. And it was not my mistake. I cannot be blamed.
Clearly I am not dry, that was a lie. Lying; add that to the grey area list. What is the truth in this modern age? Neither am I bored of this. I enjoy watching the cursor bounce around the screen, making its cheerful way along the line, only to be recalled with every spelling mistake or typing anomaly. Then it remains still, blinking. Begging me to keep going and I must, I have to obey the sporadic pulsing. I have no choice. If it remains still it is an indication of wasted time, time that could have been spent enlightening the world to the real truths. Of cursors and foolish till boys.
Age creeps up on you in subtle ways. I used to think that time was something to be mocked, taken for granted. I have to fill every waking moment but most of what I do is forgotten or pointless. Some silly drawings are still there, a bit of writing that no one reads anymore. The soup I made was great when it was eaten and then it is forgotten. On to dessert. I grew that fucking leek, give me credit. I deserve some recognition. I grew the fucking leek, fed it, watered it, nurtured the thing and then yanked it out of the warm soil. I chopped it and shallow fried it and drowned it in stock. I grew the leek and fucking killed the leek. And it tasted good. I can’t stop. There are more leeks out there. I will strike again.
And none of this is addressing the issue of the project proposal. This MA is getting serious all of a sudden. I thought it would be like MSN chat rooms but without the virtual sex. They want words. On a subject. The cheek. I have to write something about something. I might quit. I can’t be shackled in this way, forced to limit my prose to a narrow field such as art. I have to wander, I must be allowed the freedom to say nothing.
And do nothing. This afternoon I was sat with my son, colouring. He was quite content filling in the various shapes with blocks of colour. I wanted to draw.
“I want to draw.”
“But we are colouring. I want to colour.”
“I need to draw something. I know, you colour and I’ll fetch some paper so that I can draw.” The paper appeared, without much effort. I removed the top from the black felt tip. I paused briefly to consider another pen, a different colour. I was too self-conscious that as an artist I had reached for black, rather than yellow or blue. I corrected myself; black isn’t a colour.
“I want to draw too,” said my son, reaching for some paper.
“Why don’t you finish colouring that picture?” I felt threatened, “It looks very good.”
“I’m going to draw sunshine.” Optimistic little bastard. I could feel my enthusiasm waning. I had competition. As his yellow circle was near completion and the haphazard rays began to appear, I knocked off a figure with a flourish and vigour that would have been the envy of any artist. It had character, life. So much for sunshine.
I want to make work that has buttons that when pressed make little bulbs glow. Bits of text that sound authoritative but mean nothing. Artifacts that suggest a greater narrative but if closely examined are obviously pointless. Maps of real places that appear distorted and accurate maps of imaginary places. Dioramas of domestic incidents. All that museum and visitor attraction culture distilled and compressed into a small box, a chamber of pseudo-intelligence. Six ninety five to get in and two fifty for a coffee. History is written by the winners but I want it written by the dyslexic, the manic depressive and the outright liar. This is my new project.