May '01 06 - 21:45Fatigue

Tired tonight...feel psychicly drained.

I wonder where any inspiration to do art will ever come from again.  I paint all day at the day job and when I get home there's nothing left.  I used to be able to force myself to do art stuff but that impetus seems to have faded. And yet forcing myself was always a dicey proposition at best: if I were in the middle of a series or in the thick of a painting "forcing" myself might do some good. At the inspiration stage however forcing was usually fucked. Being very linear and very results oriented I thought any sort of production would be better than nothing. This was a lie I told myself to appease my latent Catholoc guilt. Truth is something might be less that nothing if it comes out a lie.

For the longest time I did not realise that the business of my artwork was to reveal painful truths about myself. The sooner I got to the nasty bits the better and on the nights when there was nothing I wanted to say well maybe I should have said nothing. I.e. staid calm in the panic of emptiness. But I've been easily distracted, always, and so the tally sheet had to start adding up. I never would trust the universe to send me an idea so I'd fabricate something.

I think some artists can get away with this because they start in a different place or they just love the process of making art. Art for art's sake. How fortunate they are!  I never loved the process and my lies were always so obvious and so....boring! All I've ever had, all I have in this moment is emotional nakedness and the willingness to expose myself and a seemingly limitless supply of rage. How cool is that?