Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Painted out of the room, I had already painted myself into a corner of.

Maybe I just want a million likes
It takes a strength not to want that
That I've begun to lose.
I have a broken heart. I'm told, I've read that there is no
Avoiding this and that in fact it is the mark of adulthood, manhood maturity
To carry a scar.

Maybe this is the place to do this I don't know.
Last week I got a letter from art dealer Peter Mcleavey, encouraging me in his sweet way, to carry on.
I once left his living room to get a cup of tea, and he told my partner that I was his biggest  mistake.
That he should have and will now offer me a ten year contract, that I was the real deal.
Apparently he was a big fan of the 'Beneficiary's Office'. I heard he bought one of my upside down
shopping bag works at a fund raiser for a gallery I helped start on his beloved Cuba st.
He told me that he loved my work but couldn't sell it. I tried to not let the crack in my soul show on my face.

More recently, my revelation and subsequent public fall, from my heroes of a miss (well) spent art youth. Their pond sucking scum action of taking the money while being silent about their role as public University employees, has me painted out of the room I had already painted myself into a corner of. Even radical friends with publication, White Fungus gave me the too hard basket treatment, while the usual standards are promoted with healthy air time, multiple page spreads.  God dam it I got Roger Douglas, shadowy god father of NZ's free market to publicly comment on the remnants of NZ's state art capitalism. That was worth more.

I was wrong to expect more and struggle to live by, to my own words, live with less. I don't know,
how to continue to participate if what is wanted from me is not what I am offering.  Nine years ago I vowed to participate by existing, despite the reasons not to. And by invitation alone had thirty showings in five years, years when I was mostly unemployed, on the benefit. years I openly declared that I was a working for the public artist. My last most recent public show invitation, a year in the making cast aside in an afternoon exactly like an unwanted child's drawing. I was aborted. In a town of poor people, ruled by a tiny elite club of rich people, the gallery doesn't even bother advertising locally, pond scum.

This morning I awoke sitting in New Zealand's pond scum. Nothing moving, just the thrashing arounds of mis guided activity, all tied already to the nose of a truck that left a year ago, decades, just following through. Collecting points. I'm a fool to want more, more is what I will get. How to get less of this. Profound comments please, rack them up below.


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