Okay, I confess, sometimes when I pick up an expensive contemporary art magazine I get sick to my stomach. I see the cover with somebody’s art on it and immediately think that it could be my art if I got my hustle together. To quote John Lennon, "I'm just a jealous guy"

And oh my, isn’t all work presented with so much glamour, fluff, and gloss. Page-page-page, advertisement-advertisement-advertisement. Bragging rights a hundred fold.  Never really getting into the feeling or the struggle of the way of life. The late nights at the pool hall, the long hours spent doing research at the arcade. Slurpees and frozen dreams getting caught under the wheel well of the bus. I generally feel after a good ‘browse’ that it will take more than a few cigarette butts to make a stamp on the world.  Damn it, why did I go in there? Why do I temp myself by indulging in the smut art.  I want to see what everyone else is doing, but when I size up to it, I freeze up to it.

Maybe I’ve learnt weakness through television. I saw a show once on fine art, I saw some stuff that was considered the definitive works of art the world has ever experienced, but I didn’t to tape it. Besides, there was something else on I wanted to record.

Look at Banksy, a stencil/street artist turned global phenomenon, recently exhibited a massive show at The Tate Modern? I mean really, for a guy who when he first started years ago, laughed and scolded people who bought his collector-pirated street art works because he is so ‘urban’. Bansky has experienced the flavour of fame. Everyone gets a taste in the Warhol sense. Above that everyone also has a price, provided you can pay. Now THAT’S art.

Oh sure the work is good, and I mean the best. Highest quality in every regard, as much as I can tell from watching You Tube. And well, at least that’s what I was told in art school. The “white cube”, ruler and dictator; master of all that is named art! Believe what you want, but if it’s not eventually in the cube, forget it honey, it ain’t art. And if it’s out there being art, don’t worry, it’ll make it’s way into the cube. The cube is a white hole, a vortex that sucks in the art and the audience along with it. The people only want to discover what has now made its way into the cube. They adore what’s next, the now. Who’s who, go to an opening and you can see a bunch of schmoo/boozing. I often see faces stained with confusion, however well disguised in the ritualistic art opening mannerisms. Well… “Congratulations”.

What I need to do is forget what I was told, and then remember everything as I realize the immediate fallacy of my education. What the heck did they think I’d do after swallowing 30 million years of art making. My jealousy is in no way directed to my peers either. My accolades fade into regret. Regret that these are still not my pictures in the glossy book; the same kind of gloss that stays on your hands, the same kind of art that stays in your soul. It’s too bad my street work doesn’t last as long.

If you read it in a magazine then it must be true (to some regard). If you read it in a book, well, this must indeed be a printed fundamentality. I read somewhere how to make art, but have yet to facilitate that knowledge. I’ll leave that up to someone else, and then I’ll agree with them. Life’s too short to be original, but just long enough to be critical.

Still, lately it’s been getting harder to glaze over things, you know, diarrhea through life. Rare are becoming the moments I fish from the stream of inspiration, catch an idea, gut, then feast on it as my own. Contrary to this, my work takes me where I need to go; which is usually through the dark alleyways and the increasingly over populated rooftops of our fair city. There was a time that I can recall, a time before hipsters ruined most sacred things, and a time before the intranet ruined graffiti. A time that you could actually be a somebody, a somebody in the most anonymous fashion.

I spoke to someone once at length about art making. She asked me about the real deal, about ‘inspiration’. “I often wonder as a linear person, what a non-linear person is thinking?” To this I was honest in saying what works for me. It is different for all of us who dwell within these subjective art-making parameters. Outside, a world apart, breathes influx and out, walks long to the far, stays warm in their head, shares not what is not, texts to land line, get’s mad at happiness… covers graffiti with a landscape of grey gloom. Yeah that’s what will sell. I need to get out more, see more of the world, then paint it and sell it. Yes this is what we are supposed to do right?

In the elevator today I rode with a gentlemen going up. I mentioned about my long day ahead and he got curious. I told him of my agenda to clean up the studio and we shared a concern about project-to-project momentum. He told me about his daughter who graduated from the U of M with honours in the B.F.A. ceramics program. He then said how she is now studying to become a dental technician, “to make money!” As he left, with the elevator doors closing I blurted, “I hear that!” But I think now what I hear is the emptiness my heart felt when I thought about an artist’s sustainability. Everyone wants a benefactor of some sort, but the more money gets involved, the less fun it becomes for me. Can’t you just appreciate it? What an artist needs is some form of social security so they can perform their duty, carefree. An artist’s welfare if you will. There are times that grant writing feels more like begging for a hand out - a hand out of our own money being dangled over our heads.

Am I a painter who makes art, or an artist who makes paintings? Or a street artist turned gallery artist? Or an artist turned chef? Or a pretend faker realist? Well fuck you at any rate, you and your categories. If categories help you to understand life and appreciate good art then smarten up and open up. Well unless of course that’s what they told you, then you should stick with that, because we all know what happens when you stand out and think for yourself… people listen.