Created: 16/01/2024
Size: A2
Orientation: landscape
Type: drawing
Inside of everyone, presumably, is an urge to do something meaningful.
But instead, because I don't believe in meaning, I'm trying to make good art -- which, somehow, I've convinced myself is purpose.
And I satisfy this urge probably any time I finish a piece, or at least in the following days while staring at it.
If I stare at it long enough, some hate also arises, which drives me to make more art.
That hatred never goes too deep: I appreciate what I learned and being able to see the ideas I sat on for, most likely, a couple of weeks.
I keep bouncing between loving and hating a piece until it has been on my wall long enough. Then it feels like it always was. Like it being there is a fact of the universe.
At that point, I lose the ability to love or hate it.
Hopefully, I never make anything too good. I wouldn't know what to do with myself.
There's no reason to repeat yourself over and over if what you've already done is as good as it gets -- which would leave nothing else to do.