The Farmer's Market: First of Series

On the road to find out; the Farmer's Market

I have resolved the issue.

I can now commit to only delivering and being the messenger for genuine heartfelt paintings, and this, works that convey emotion, imagination, social commentary and humour, is what i shall do. For better or for worse, wish me luck.

TORN

I am often torn these days by what is truely inspired and what someone truely just wants to match their couch. I had guessed that the latter was more marketable, and I can say that even though i've done a few peices with the intention of them being sold, it wasn't that they were totally uninspired. There are always elements in a painting that i enjoy even if the painting itself doesn't provoke some sort of political or social comment or doesn't create some sort of back lashing by activists. I know artists like banksy use these gimmicks not just to get attention but also, i'm sure, because they believe in what they are doing and they want change. However, I'm equally as certai these same Artists choose gimmicks and public displays of offensiveness to get the attention they need in order to continue to live on their art. Being able to express oneself without having to consider if you can sell the work is an extreme luxury, and one not many can afford. I often do work that I aim to sell simply so that I can continue on buying groceries and so that I can every once in a while get a chance to be freely inspired and be able to work on something that excites me. I believe in the idea not coming before the artwork, or rather, taking the artist out of the art. The work should speak for itself, either you feel something when you experience it or you don't. I think that if you have to read about the art work to be interested in it, then the art work has failed. OF course, every gallery, contest and application for grant wants to hear about why you are doing it or have done a particular piece of work, as if a person can't figure that out for themselves. Universities insist on visiting artists speak about their work, and I can't say I have found anything more self indulgent, except any and all reality television. IF that is a reflection of art as we know it, i'm not sure I'm interested. What happened to loving what you see? What happened to beauty itself? Galleries want one thing, the private collectors want another, the artist just wants to be left alone, and each one is poo-pooing the other. Do I sound Bitter? Getting there, i suppose. Talent means very little, hard work means a little. Being a business savy narcisist means the most and is the best guage to success. I have so many ideas, I feel so plugged in, and now all i need is the time and a little money to keep going, and this may not happen. I really don't want to die with the music in me, but then again, how self important is that to think that my ideas are so great that the next young art trained trust funded talentless artist won't just be able to make the same statement twice, and get publicity for it shorty after I'm gone. As I said, the best paintings painted themselves anyway, so who am i to say who owns it, or what should be done? I'm just the messenger. The starving, saddened jaded messenger.
hmmm...more ideas coming. must.recieve. input. now.

Noon In Chester

It was noon in Chester. Ella was in the back pack, perched with her head on my shoulder looking out like a pet parrot, we walked through the street singing pirate songs and looking for something new. We hummed our way past the old houses with big windows and flower gardens. The white washed picket fences stood guard and the ridiculously large guest houses that matched the main houses seemed to tell a story of conservative loyalists, a wanting of being welcoming without actually being so. They need no have signs that say keep away, despite the homes obvious charms. An older woman passes by and nods, but carefully. We smile back. Having a baby on your back adds to a person's confidence with strangers. A nice ice breaker. We followed the sound of the ocean and the smell wood burning smoke and found ourselves by the water, off in the distance, an island, to the right, someone burning leaves on a hug stately property, and in front of us, this gazebo. It was absolutely quiet, no one else around, no cars, no one out to eat their lunch on this beautiful in this lovely gazebo. I took Ella out of her carrier, her toddler wobble still adjusting her sea legs, she meandered her way around, and we ate our lunch thinking how nice and how strange to be alone here. Ella was laughing and we walked back into the ghost town.