...I am asking because sometimes I THINK I feel inadequate as an artist but this may be an issue of semantics. What I do know for sure is that sometimes I feel like running away to a foreign land so that I can crawl up into a ball and have a big old pity party with no interruptions ONLY to rise up again like a phoenix from my pain and anguish and create the greatest cross-genre artistic masterpiece EVER! Why I can't find a way to do this on American soil...I don't know. BUT the market being what it is here...a FORCE...not that it is not like that globally at this point...I sometimes feel like anywhere else would be better for me as an artist.
Don't get me wrong...history, dysfunction, and other instances of hot mess aside, I am a committed, proud American. I've been a few places in the world and have come to the conclusion that nothing suits my lifestyle, in general, better than residing in Brooklyn USA. HOWEVER...I think I need to get away for a bit to a place where I am more of an anomaly and am not made to feel like I am washed up at 32! I know, I know...no one can MAKE me feel like a has been...it's a choice...and sometimes I make it! I sometimes feel like my ship has sailed and other times I feel like I am just not good enough. ON THE OTHER HAND...sometimes I feel like y'all have no idea what you're missing...you know, "phenomenal woman...that's me!"
Like many other artists around the world, I have an undiagnosed case of artistic schizophrenia!
I am with Sheryl Crow...I think "a change would do me good".
Stay tuned for my pending flight.... :-)
1 comment:
from the new yorker's profile of karl lagerfeld, roundabout a year ago:
"The fitting model strutted forward in a new outfit and posed in front of Lagerfeld. He scrutinized her through his dark glasses and frowned. He said that he did not like the way the assistant had arranged the neckline of the sweater the model wore. Several assistants converged on her and began to tug uncertainly at the fabric.
"'Non, non!' Lagerfeld said.
"He uncapped a black marker and, rings clacking, made a quick sketch on a pad in front of him. Lagerfeld derisively describes many of his colleagues as “playing the designer,” because they drape fabric on a model or a dummy; he conceives his collections at a kind of platonic remove, in multicolored drawings on paper, and only rarely touches fabric. The picture he produced—a swift hash of lines suggesting a soignée woman—reflected his skill as an illustrator. (His work has been published in numerous books and magazines.) An assistant looked at the drawing and hustled to the model to make adjustments. Lagerfeld ripped the drawing from the pad, crushed it in his hands, and tossed it into a large wicker hamper, which, over the course of the evening, filled with similar small masterpieces. 'I throw everything away!” he declared. “The most important piece of furniture in a house is the garbage can! I keep no archives of my own, no sketches, no photos, no clothes—nothing! I am supposed to do, I’m not supposed to remember!' He smoothed a gloved hand over the empty page in front of him and visibly relaxed."
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