Who > Would > I > Be ?

There is a undefined trajectory to what I do. I sometimes muse how easy this art life would be if I could choreograph, plan out and plagiarise my own work - “oh you want one just like that? Easy, I’ll whip one up…” - that - that will never happen.

There is no controlling the muse, she is gracious enough to gift me one of each kind. We disagree. We wrestle. I curse her, and this undefined spark she seeks. We dance through it, we stare in silence, and I walk back and forth while we decide what action comes next. There are only two outcomes - we get there and call an artwork complete, or I walk away.

It is strange to articulate the process. Externalizing the creative force as a separate/conjoined entity is the cleanest rationale I have for where the work comes from, because I’m not sure I have an answer. The one who strikes five lines onto a page and produces a complete artwork - that’s not me - that’s the beast.

“If the muse comes to your bedside, don’t tell her you’ll fuck her later.” I appreciate these succinct words from Allen Ginsberg, 1987.

And that is why I surrender to paint-fuelled, sleepless nights when required -

Because who would I be - to dare deny her?