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.