February 1, 2009

Recently I was in a meeting of sorts.  And as meetings tend  to go for me, I was given the business.  “Screaming, teenaged boy”, was the charming description I received about what I do here, repeated about eight times throughout the discussion.  I took immediate offense of course, I didn’t ask for any opinion, no grade requests were dropped on his desk, not even close.  But before I was able to muscle through the tears to plead my case, I was also told that I am too sensitive and emotionally attached to my work.  That once you offer it to the commercial, physical world you have to accept whatever insights (outright smears) anyone might offer, and if you can’t handle it, then it is time to move on to other endeavors.  Well…  Fine, and I am in honest when I say I accept this.  But understand this, those who cavalierly comment on others’ hard work without any real thought to the effort and courage it takes to turn art out.  It may just be penguin dreams and boner jokes to you, but there is a reason for all of it. There are some committed to the possibilities art has to make people happy, bring god fearing/god less people together  to celebrate irrational, romantic, dangerous ideas in the face of irrational, romantic, dangerous times.  And when times are tough as they are, it is always the art world which is first to have to fight against elimination, because of supposed frivolity.  If that’s not personal, I don’t know what is.  But I can take it.  Mister.








It’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I am regressing.  I saw a large man in carhaart gear walking with a six-pack of Hamm’s, two of which were missing, past my window.  There goes someone on his way out of the harsh judgement of the unfun, sports hating, Portland atmosphere, I thought, and into a wonderful world of carefree football viewing.  Where bowls of chips arrive, seemingly from the heavens. And hotdogs shower upon you from the exposed light bulb sky.  He was so beautiful to me I nearly fainted.