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.