Nevermind the hatred. The pulse of fear and lethargy produce the racket in my heart. The constant state of needing to sit down but never comfortable when my body sinks into the shape my spine has etched in. I can’t sleep on my shoulders anymore; the compromise being staring at the ceiling fan awaiting whichever darkness consumes me that night.
I’m not terribly lonely; even if I’m terribly alone. The kids rarely ever see me anymore, and calls have now devolved into the “same shit different day.” I’m not particularly interested in what they are doing. However, I feel catharsis hearing them complain about trivial issues.
I get especially giddy when they complain about an issue that is of my own doing. I call them love letters from my father.
Retirement never really happened for me. Yeah sure, I don’t have to go to the darkrooms or presses anymore; but I still have to curate. My work never makes it into galleries, but I know they hang in dirty closets and stuffed in decomposing cardboard. I’m still in demand, and I’ve been working on this project for six months now.
The medium is becoming more and more enigmatic. I’m sick of this nebulous bullshit. My duty as an artist has been to create something so existential there cannot be any kind of interpretation. I want the title to be the statement. Every snap taken a replication. Plagiarism extremely encouraged.
I’m running out of canvas. I can’t keep spending thousands of dollars for canvas just to fuck it up and throw it away. My home, turned hoarding warehouse, is covered with failure. I never realized painting a section of fencing in the snowy hills of some abandoned farm, would lend itself to so much to interpretation.
The photo that I am telepathically using for reference was sold years ago. The buyer had a reputation for giving offers that sellers couldn’t refuse. I was scared opening his IM but rest assured, the flimsy polaroid was on its way to some PO Box in Minnesota shortly after I acquired it.
I went to hell and back to get that fucking polaroid. The most frustrating part is that it was mine to begin with. Going through all my disintegrating banker boxes, back-tracking in all my old studio spaces air vents, tapping on the walls for my forgotten false boards, and even flipping through my mom’s old scrapbooks.
The photo is nothing visually special. Even people who know the context wouldn’t appraise if for much.
When I finally found it, I nearly cried. I could finally continue my work. I sent out my invoice and description to my financier, and was assumed accepted when I found $20,000 in my milk box.
I got the medium a week after I got my 20. Before I started I just sat it down and stared and it for a whole day. Finding the shades, how the light pronounced different features throughout the day, the anticipated decay. It takes a lot before I start but it takes even more to finish.
It’s been sitting there for six fucking months, and the smell always changes enough to be recognized. I can’t move it until my work is finished. And I hate how the medium keeps invading with its own interpretation in each stroke. I can’t not look at it, but it makes me sick seeing the similarities between my work and that pile of slop.
Christ, I don’t have forever to finish this project. My financier calls me almost daily now to get updates. I’m never good under pressure and have only applied my talents to projects that I know I can complete without getting sucked in. That was a lesson I learned in my early 30’s; bandwidth is much more important than passion.
But this sack of shit (literally), keeps penetrating my periphery and tainting my work. I understand the function of the medium, but it’s always felt like a benefit for the buyer and a punishment for the artist. I don’t like selling to an audience.
Hopefully this is my last project for a while. I can’t take the criticism like I used to. I can’t ignore the medium like I used to. I’m not interested in increasing my status, as I have already achieved the designation as reliable.
ZCUMCORE 
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