waving at the door -- the senses say bye-bye

The world is leaving us, fading away, and we won’t look up long enough to see it go. The world is rain in the face and wind in the hair along with the smells of cooking and leather and sweat and shit, all avoided these days or discounted as minor inconveniences. Modern folks also neglect their bodies applying an array of sauces to processed food while packing on pounds, and they live vicariously through digitalized surrogates, lovably dysfunctional sit-com families, peak athletes in play-offs, and ruthless unstoppable killing machines. Sure looks like curtains for a commonly shared reality and there doesn’t seem to be a thing anyone can do to slow it down. Artists claw at the ground but are swept away as well, inundated by knock-off imitators from all directions and a market that craves familiarity and repetition.

Along with a planet on fire, a disintegrating democracy, and a world pandemic these are interesting odds for anyone considering a career making art. Did I fail to mention that creating by-hand is nearly an obsolete notion and even the idea of a thing unique in itself has almost left the language? It’s going to be a tough row to hoe, a thankless penniless futile assignment, a snow-swept lonely trek up a remote mountain but fools sign up anyway. While it may be the case that there’s no license exam or advanced degree and all anyone has to do it look in the mirror and say I’m an artist, let’s reserve the title for people actually making art independently against all odds. They’re providing a rear-guard, a last-ditch effort to reclaim physical reality and the sheer ability to see, touch, taste and smell the world directly.