Guyomech said:
2) write an artist's statement describing who you are and what you're aiming for as an artist. Save as a SimpleText or Word document
Ahhh . . . .
man . . . . .
I've been in the art game for a spell, a solid member of the underground. I have lived with other artists, in a giant art warehouse, for 6 years, being crazy art people.
But the one thing that has driven me to the point of committing homicide is the dreadful Artist Statement. Never in my life have I read such fevered self-worship and hilariously hyperbolic comments on the meaning behind everything they did. Uhg. It's part of why I always refuse to show at galleries. (Once, at MOMA in NY City, there was an "art piece" that was just a plain white room, and every few seconds a light would blink on and off. On the wall was a
SIX PARAGRAPH Artist Statement about the meaning of this horseshit! I puked blood out of my eyeballs for a week after that. True story. The other reason I never show at major galleries is the ridiculously high, and just plain
embarrassing prices people put on their art. )
"I realized I'd been touched by artistic greatness at the age of four. I remember holding an orange, off-brand crayon in the light of a sunbeam. All at once, my life opened up before me, and I knew blah blah blah
BLAH!"
Ahh . . . I'm having a bit of fun. I do like the idea and will see about entering my non-comic book type art (painted statues and crystals, an obelisk carved from a large dead tree that I plan to carve images on and paint gold, etc.) .
And I do encourage tempered egos with those Artist Statements. Let's try and avoid words like "visionary," "diaphanous," "intangible," "gifted," or "spiritual."
You'll do as you please, of course, but if I have to rag on you a bit for an over-the-top Artist Statement, don't be surprised. I can't help it, my instincts take over . . .
This drives me crazy in particular since I've lived with artists my whole life. It taught me to stay in the shadows. That can be tricky in a giant warehouse with 500 people having a party in a space rated for about 80. (There were only about 8 permanent people who lived there, with about twenty as part of the collective. The parties went on until the fire marshal said enough is enough. The resident old drunk fell asleep with a lit cigarette one night and burned the place to the ground. The old man died and so did one of the resident's dogs, a pit bull named Seed. There were tears for the dog, none for the old man. )
Here's my statement, short and sweet: "I've always liked to draw, that's no big deal."
