More. Or Less.

Many thoughts, and too scrambled to get them together in more depth anymore.

Having hypoglycemic episodes every day this week, sometimes twice a day. After a period of predictability with my insulin intake, once again my body is doing whatever. But going to give it a go anyway right now, despite ridiculous fatigue, because before I keep going with making, I have to write about this.

After that last wet rag of a pompous book I wrote about in my last post, I’ve read a bunch of other things. A biography of Annegret Soltau, “I was on a quest,” translated a bit awkwardly from German to English, but evidence of endurance through situations of emotional and physical poverty, and finally the disapproval of artistic society for being both an artist and a mother. Jerry Saltz’s “How To Be An Artist,” a short, pithy, no bullshit, written from the heart book about pursuing an artistic life, completely opposite in spirit from Deresiewicz’s recent written declaration. Numerous contemporary articles about artists who are real artists, and yet earn a living in another sphere. All of these realistic and edifying rebuttals to all the nonsense scenarios brought up in the wet rag of a pompous book I read last weekend. So … GOOD.

So after thinking about all this for a week, I’ll paraphrase the words of my father, who I spoke with at length after my last post. That is, that making art is its own reward. And in my opinion, if that’s not why you’re making it, you’re missing the main point. Focus on this – everything else is icing.

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