There is a compulsory freedom that goes along with being an artist. A writer. A lover. A lover of beautiful women.
The drive to create is not always a pure, beautiful or even compassionate urge. It is more of a reptilian need to
survive. A need that surpasses all personality and will.
I would like to convince you that the drive behind art is
glamorous or spiritual nature, but in truth, it is a need to pummel human flesh with one's callused fist of jaded
All the better if the artist's desperate surrender that throws
the cigarette butt of morality out the car
window gives pleasure to another. It is only through the painful death of the ego, a loss of identity, that one can know
Straight lines have always frightened me. I get dizzy when people tell me who I am before we say "Hello." Flexibility
is strength. Survival of the fittest means ability to tap dance while the bullets fly. Perpetually moving, I avoid being stuck.
I want to grab the world's eyes in my fists and drag people through symbols of ignorance. Past what they know is true, into
what they know is real. We all use tools (adaptive aids) to survive. So much bigger than us, what is it that we fear?
The sight of another's limping reminds us of our own hideous fragility. Mortality.
not see with vibrant eyes the brilliant contrasts of colors? Not dualistic light/dark, but mixtures, changes, contradictions.
Opposites that are points-of-view of the same thing. Let it in. Don't accept the obvious. Straightlines have always frightened
me. Keep my eyes and heart open. Celebrate my fragility. Recognize my temporary mortality for the gift that it is.