I’m not alone when I paint. You are over my shoulder, disappointed, giving unsolicited advice: this here, that there. You always want me to see things your way.

So I have learned to laugh when I paint.

Telling myself it is shit and that’s funny.

You only move for the critic. Always there foretelling me the fate of my painting’s fortune. Oh well.

I am hilarious and distasteful and that’s O.K.

My obligation to my art is to make it. To write my story, paint, create. No matter how badly.

So leave me alone.

I’m busy.