Im so jelous right now of Ds ex lover. I feel like a fucking idiot. I hate how it affects me. It makes me think of it obsessively. Thinking of ways to blame it on her. Still, its the uncertanty of how much of it that is actually on her that makes me frustrated. If I knew, objectively it was all about me I could handle it different. 

Ofcourse a big part is fear on my end. Fear of losing her. I mean I love her, she seems to be everything I am looking for. Then ofcourse it is the male ego. I don’t want her to have any kind of feelings for past lovers. I want them discarded. It’s an immature thought on my end but it also feels imature on her end. What does she want this guy around for? Just in case things will be different? To not loose touch? 


But what annoys m most is that he is prioritized over me. That the five free days she has she will spend with him and not me. That she didn’t ask how I felt about it beforehand. That makes me feel like she doesn’t see me as a part of her life as I see her part of mine. It hurts. Also that she didn’t tell me that she planned to sleep in the same bed as him and that she wants to spend time alone with him and not the three of us. It just feels really weird. Really irritating. I hate that guy. Ugh. I’m an idiot. I don’t know. Am I? Life is life. 


why are human relationships so complicated? I guess we dwell in a network of tribes. Thats how it often feel. Art has the possibility to connect tribes otherwise socially wide apart. It creates global subcultures and bonds fueled by similare aesthetic feathers. It’s also what makes it so fragile. So easy to pick apart and separate. Everything is visible. Everything is up for analysis. 


I go to the gym almost everyday. At first i wanted to get out of depression. Then out of addiction. Now i think i just do it for the progression. It is something concrete like math. You do it and you progress. I believe it is the same with everything, that repetition is the mother of all learning. As the muscles learn how the body moves they can grow or change shape. I wish art was more like this but it also contain a social factor. Something that is eternally more complex. 


Your art can progress, become better, in relation to you but in a greater perspective it is also dependent on other people’s aesthetic tastes. You can only, really, progress in relation to your own taste. In this way it has a small banal connection to exercise. That your body’s progression only progress in relation to your own genetic possibilities. Art, you can compare it more to fitness models. They bring their bodies into the social space. No matter how hard they do their work the success in their field will always be dependent on the judges taste for what is the optimal body type. What physical trends rule at the moment.  


As an artist, any kind of artist, all you can do is focus on your individual progression. In relation to yourself. The rest is up to the universe. Just as for Mr/Miss Universe. 


But we need something to calm us. Something that gives the impression that things make sense. Art theory, religion, politics, subcultures etc. All these things artists in history has added to the concept of art to have a reason to go on and fight. It somewhat delude art, making it less of it’s own pure field, multi-classing it of sorts. Sometimes this is needed for a field to survive, when it is weak, when it can’t stand by itself. And that is ok. Just as muscles might need to rest a day to get back into growth. Still the focus should be clear that art is nothing without itself as its main protagonist. In large and small. As a field and as a individual artist. 


I would love to be a writer. When a painter you can really long for expressing something clearly. On the other hand pictures are very clear in its own way. When I was young I read a lot of texts by Bartes and got interested in signs and symbols. The signifier and the signified. I got lost in his texts. Thinking a huge amount of his short description of the obtuse (blunt, unclear, unspecific) meaning of a picture. As I understood it it was what we as onlookers can see in a picture but is not necessarily intended to be there as a sign directed at the reader. In some way a residue of the maker. The decisions the maker did not take. I am not so sure how he intended it but I interpreted it as a very honest thing. That obtuse meaning. Like a tell of its maker. Something to unmask.

It seemed political too me to try to achieve this. Contrary to the notion I got from the art academy that good art only contains decisions. Maybe a leftover ideology from conceptualist traditions or a intellectualism that grew into art in the 20th century. To me, this is more what design is. A field where we try to communicate something with tools we invent. “This is a good thing because it fulfills it’s function”.

The obtuse was for me a leading word in what art is. More of an aesthetic fingerprint. A field where you constantly search to find that which we can not design. That “tell” of the maker that makes a piece of art so human.


Applications. I fear them. I don't know how to talk about my work. I so many times feel like a confused misfit. I think I don't work well aesthetically in combination with my more literary brain half. I don't know why I do what I do. I just do. Observe, preserve, rework, present. It's like sport. Exercising. Not at all intellectual even if intelligent. Also, I think through making. A bit like placing legos together to see what shape it will take. I guess explorative. I don't know. I already feel lost in my thought. To many of them flying around. I guess I am a very bad entrepreneur for my practice. 

I can identify with the outsider artist. It's more intuitive production. Somehow based on need. As a sickness. Only I am schooled which makes it a bit more weird. I was brought up by a art academy run by conceptual artist that come from that era where the concept was the revolt agains old men. I want to revolt against this I guess. Since I feel there is no place for me in that mold. 

I look at my figures. They look silly to me. I am sometimes ashamed. They look to cartoony. "Potato heads". To boy-ish. To toy-ish. Not arty, not chiseled in its expression but if something they are weirdos in art. Somewhere I know it is good. I love how they look some times. These times I know I am right. I get struck by megalomania a little bit. Then I remember what megalomania and love of the self makes to old art men and I back out. Try to find another way out. But I return. To potato-heads. To to much-ness. To things I can't completely accept with my practice. 

It like my body. I work it out because I want to look good. I always wanted to be thin. I always wanted to be attractive but I never seem to get there. My character is to weak. Or something else is wrong. I am doing something wrong. I can't figure out what. I just want a good life. Like we all do and I try to believe that all good things come to those who wait but how long can I muster. How many more days can I work for five days a week at a frameshop. Work for one day a week at a tattooshop. One day and 3 evening a week in the studio and go to the gym 5 days a week without collapsing? What gives?

I am getting consumed by jealousy of others success that I think don't deserve it. It haunts me and I am ashamed of it. Mostly because it makes me feel small. As a failure. As someone who was not built to succeed. A slave among tsars and emperors. Running inbetween openings. Laughing socially. Interpreting codes. Decoding structures. Walking around in the mid bottom of the food chain in a small art-scene in a small country. Looking for a way out. Or a way into the studio where I can work and do what I love every day hand achieve mild appreciation. Disgusting myself.  

In other news. I met a woman and I think I love her. I don't know why. It is in her aura and her beauty maybe. But mostly how she looks at the world, and me. 

My life is not so bad. But this art stuff drives me crazy. 


Tonight I feel like I don’t know how to solve my life. I spent to much time listening to conservative philosophers. It’s somehow a comfort in this world even if it sometimes feel all wack. Jordan Peterson mainly. I don’t know what to think about that guy. Very biology. Not so “soft”. Still a lot is about relationship management. Those parts I like. 


G, I’m hurting her. I don’t want to but I don’t know what to do. I still miss L. Very much. I think about her a lot. G is good to me, good for me. Still, I’m not so sure if she is what I want. And the distance makes it complicated. She is quite masculine. Somehow. Even tho she wants to be feminine. She is very special. I really love her in many ways but maybe not in the most important of ways. I don’t know. It just doesn’t come naturally. The distance makes it harder to try it out for real. But maybe it just isn’t. How much I even wish for it to be. 

I don’t want to hurt her. But that’s unavoidable if I do not feel the same as she feels. 

L, I don’t know how to dare to go back into it. Would we make it? How. 


my art is, I don’t know, good but unexceptional. Not so exciting even if the form is good. It lacks competent content. It lacks a voice. A definition.  




I think I spent all my life making for an invisible eye. A future eye. I think that eye is digital now. Not like a computer dystopia. Still, what will sort my experiance in the afterworld is a digital archivist. 

It was interesting today, a thing I heard on the radio. About a computer program that could construct a face from a dna string and it is very similar to the person carrying the dna it is made from. Wouldn't it be amazing if that process could be reversed. That an image could be read into DNA and constructed to reality. What would an image feel if it was a real thing? It's psychology. If "The Scream" by Munch would be a human, probably it wouldn't be filled with horror. Maybe it would be similar to Munch. I'm getting carried away with my fantasies. 

I went to see the an exhibition about Egypt and Cyprus objects in ancient times today. The Cyprus ones where amazing. Such fantastic faces the sculptures carried. Very distinct noses and bulging eyes. Razor sharp lips. Round faces with the most divine skin. I want to make faces like this. Almost alien but still somehow caricatures. 

I feel quite alone at the moment. I long for children. Someone to share bed with. A normal life. Financial security. 

I wish I would not want art in my life. That I could just work for money. On and on and on until I die.