It took hours [unfinished]
It took hours to write nothing. Days to draft one line. Weeks to find the words amongst tens of thousands of words. Years awaiting to feel a particular emotion, in a sequence of thousands of emotions. Decades for a few noteworthy experiences. A lifetime and good fortune to meet a muse. All while navigating an innumerable amount of distractions.
It took my being inadequate and inferior. Too many and hard to bear rejections. A loud and violent hatred towards myself. Palpitations and trouble breathing caused by a guilty conscience. A torturous inability to sleep. And a proficiency for constant loss and failure. That is not leisure or recreation, that is work. And that work is not frivolous, it is essential to people who need to be consoled.
And still my efforts are ignored and my work insulted. But I’m enough to be in Gagosian, MoMa or the AGO. I’m enough to collaborate with Dan Colen, David Choe or Labeoufronkkoturner. I’m enough to be mentioned with Sharon Hayes, Robert Burns or William Shakespeare. And I need not thirty-seven sonnets or twenty paintings but just one artwork and sixteen years to prove that great art is not made with talent but with feeling.