The Artful Blogger

Thursday, February 09, 2006

There are those who ridicule the blog, with it's innate emotional needfulness and the fake play at honesty. Let me be the first to say that manipulation and veracity are overrated, and yet we all play these little games. The only thing I don't agree to is the laughing scornfulness of those who mock the artful blogger. Afterall, how easy is it to mock and ridicule on a blog? Terribly easy, point proven.

That said, what I wanted to really talk about is how hard it is to stop joking around. In public, I hate to be too serious because all too often I am embarassed by truthfulness. My fine-tuned performance of manic self-obsession hides quite transparently my indecision and confusion on many issues. My private self is often nervous and angsty. I only seem to bare myself in my art, which is why I have such a poor exhibition record, and why I've never gone to one of my openings without getting a little liquored before-hand.

In fact, if I was to look at it, I am so much better at publicising my facile opinions on this blog, than talking about my actual work. Which is why this new piece is causing me no end of jitters. It's so naked, but ridiculous at the same time. I mean, when I wrote it, it made me laugh... like stupid guffaws I would spontaneously bellow out at night in front of my computer. And then, during the making of the piece, I worked hard to keep that spirit alive. All today, though, when I knew it would soon go before my curators, and I knew it would have to be subject to an opinion other than my own, I shook and trembled.

I nervously laughed at the immigration officer when she cautioned me about renewing my passport. I laughed at the light fixtures too. Then I went home and laughed even more at the stuck sink. Finally, sitting by myself at the cafe, waiting for the curators to show up, I laughed out loud at the feeble loveplay of a couple I was eavesdropping on.

Then the curators showed up and I was forced to show them the piece.

I went to the bathroom.

I tried to rinse a wine spot off my cashmere cardigan and made a right pimple out of it.

I went back and the two were sitting and grinning. We talked a bit about the piece and I feel vaguely relieved, though I think one of them is starting to catch on that I'm a bit of a punk with my work, and not at all "serieuse." Actually, she's wrong. I'm dead serious. I'm dead serious at saying what I want to say and how I want to say it. I just can't say it any other way. If I'm a punk is that I can't be bothered with the daily administrative grind of being an artist... the endless grant writing, proposals, rewriting the biography, collecting documentation, sending tapes, signing contracts. It doesn't sound like much, but darn, those things take a lot of time and are infinitely more annoying than filling out dental x-ray request forms.

Oh god... I'm hopeless.