Life of Quigley

I’m tired.

Damn, I am tired.

I was speaking with my aunt Elayne around Thanksgiving and she asked what I’ve been working on. I came to the realization that when I work (on art) things start to fall apart. When I started doing work post-grad the world could of cared less what I did. Sort of a zero sum equation (no recognition – no harm to myself, friends or loved ones). The Universe didn’t care what I did and it didn’t bother me. At this stage of my life I have to make commitments.

My father put it well describing his relationship with the clarinet. He said (and I agree) that you need a minimum time to do your craft. If you don’t (or can’t) it’s detrimental. You realize that what you are doing is crap and it’s in a way better not to be doing something. Minimum, I need 4 hrs a day to be serious and stop fucking around. Unless Congress gives us a 28hr day I’m S*O*L*

I only have a finite amount of time in the day, limited amount of space and a minute amount of tolerance for crap work. Too many people need me and I can’t let them down.

I personally don’t know how it is with other people in creative fields, but as of late when I go down into the studio I am overwhelmed by the visual stench of my own work. Even the pieces that are “successful” annoy me, if for the only reason that I’m the only one that likes them. If I don’t have time to make the stuff I certainly don’t have time to trot out the “dog and pony show” to the art industry. And more than enough ink has been wasted about that.

Maybe I need to take a break of about a year and not think like an artist. Even then I have to deal with the studio. Picture this: a trophy room wall-to-ceiling, every award saying “participant”, “last place”, “most annoying.” What the hell am I going to do that stuff? It’s an albatross about the size of a 70’s era Buick *literally*.