Art is a Waste of Time.
But then again, so is: Blowing bubbles, staring into puddles, petting a dog, kissing your beloved.
Equally inefficient are the acts of: Tickling a babies’ feet, shit-talking with a likeminded friend, listening to Coltrane, or Sabbath, or Hank Williams.
Or the slow and easy summer lethargy of eating strawberries in the heat that radiates from a riverbank. 2:00 p.m. on a Sunday with nowhere to be.
This is where the energy of art and creativity live. In the throw-away moments that don’t move the plot forward in any significant way.
After March of 2020, it was as if time itself ceased to exist. With it went
people-pleasing, and the tireless need to find deeper meaning.
Because in the end, all that is left is getting back to these moments.
Finding joy and peace in the every day. And not taking it all so very seriously.
Because the alternative is a reality too confounding to contemplate,
In a timeline too alien to be real.
You’ll find all of this in my work:
The rich vividness of humanity and nature,
The quiet and naked darkness of horror,
The beauty of color for colors sake.
Thank you for looking.
