Alright then. I've sold another painting and I've gotten my website up, though not completely functional, and I've gotten some folks to come by and read my rants and raves. I do the work and I can honestly say that "I am an artist."
Still, as I try to distance myself from my own voice and look and listen objectively on the object that is me, I can't help but notice that there is something missing from my life. Something that, I believe, I became aware of when I started reading about art and artists in my mid-teens. It is a romantic quality, a nearly swashbuckling attitude, brave, defiant, revolutionary and even dangerous.
Instead, my life is filled with medication costs, roofing problems and tree removals. Where are the intense café conversations, the whirlwind love affairs that end in heart break, stacks of inspired paintings and notebooks filled with enigmatic drawings? Where are the absinthe visions and opium dreams? Where is the romantic life that an artist is supposed to live?
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