I adore the strange, and I think maybe it is calling to me for wanting to be a part of it.
Suffering, I try to find meaning in her, but she just wants me to pass the time.
My memories taint my hope of reality, therefore, my art conveys my disdain I hold for the events around me. Nonsense is now my best friend, as at least he doesn't expect an explanation from me.
Create an Oil painting, and I create another version of reality where things aren't masked by the constant desire to please.
Process? What process? Oh you mean the pain of coming up with an idea, producing it to then be told it wasn't worthwhile.
FUN.
But oh my! how my art has pride.
The more I venture into my art, the more I find things to despise.
My art just loves to be beautiful, but how do I tell her that she is not?
My own art doesn't want to make sense, she's too tired of trying to fit into people's preferences. She hasn't got the time, Yet, everything that she is, was put together because of the actions of others.
She slips away, molding into the very objects around her, blending with their lines, as passing time seals them together.
The creator of her own chaos. Let her eat herself, though people say her flavor is quite weak.
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