Well fuck.
People will actually pay to see you lay it all out for them. Paint, or write, or something... Anything. So long as people can take it home with 'em, people'll want to buy it.
Emotional DeathStars are exactly what people need in their lives. Tear 'em down. Destroy them completely. If they can't take a little total-ego-devastation, then they're doubly in need of some ego-devastation.
That's what W.S. Burroughs was talking about in 'Naked Lunch' is all about. That moment when you suddenly realize what's on the end of your fork. The moment that you see yourself naked and suddenly want to puke.
I was just reading JG Ballard. Looking at his anatomical drawings of a woman giving head. A medical-diagram-type cut-aways of her skull, and sinuses. A laterally bisected tongue and cock, showing us the spongy tissue and blood vessels inside.
The illustrations says to me, "Hey... You know that activity that you love so much? Well this is what it really is." Ouch... being human stings...
The ego... our self images... and when we look in the mirrors, we're all in need of eye-glasses. So, go ahead and destroy the ego. It's all just a self-delusion anyway.
Most everything I paint is a confession. If somebody turns me inside out and shows me my insides, my emotional cancer, it'd just enhance my life. Besides... It's likely that I've already been there...
"Yeah, I suck. I know. Actually, it's worse than you think. I'm even more fucked up than that. You've hardly scratched the surface"
Hehe... see... I like to confess my human-ness. It's all I can do to put a band-aid on my hemorrhaging heart.
People will actually pay to see you lay it all out for them. Paint, or write, or something... Anything. So long as people can take it home with 'em, people'll want to buy it.
Emotional DeathStars are exactly what people need in their lives. Tear 'em down. Destroy them completely. If they can't take a little total-ego-devastation, then they're doubly in need of some ego-devastation.
That's what W.S. Burroughs was talking about in 'Naked Lunch' is all about. That moment when you suddenly realize what's on the end of your fork. The moment that you see yourself naked and suddenly want to puke.
I was just reading JG Ballard. Looking at his anatomical drawings of a woman giving head. A medical-diagram-type cut-aways of her skull, and sinuses. A laterally bisected tongue and cock, showing us the spongy tissue and blood vessels inside.
The illustrations says to me, "Hey... You know that activity that you love so much? Well this is what it really is." Ouch... being human stings...
The ego... our self images... and when we look in the mirrors, we're all in need of eye-glasses. So, go ahead and destroy the ego. It's all just a self-delusion anyway.
Most everything I paint is a confession. If somebody turns me inside out and shows me my insides, my emotional cancer, it'd just enhance my life. Besides... It's likely that I've already been there...
"Yeah, I suck. I know. Actually, it's worse than you think. I'm even more fucked up than that. You've hardly scratched the surface"
Hehe... see... I like to confess my human-ness. It's all I can do to put a band-aid on my hemorrhaging heart.