Writing about the idea that I can’t seem to make work about wasting time whilst wasting time not making art about wasted time. I always want to suffer for my art. A cliché, I know. The idea of wasting time enjoying myself has never occurred to me. All this time I could have been making work by eating my favourite foods, meeting my friends for tea or jumping for joy.
No, that would be pointless, meaningless and I dare say it, enjoyable. NOT. THE. POINT.
What is the point? Why is it that time wasted has to involve an element of the mundane, the drab, the boring and end with a yawn? I think it’s because the things I enjoy are categorised as useful, valuable, exciting moments of time so even if the occurrence of these events is to put something else off, it somehow feels acceptable.
I would not get that sense of nothing from doing something. I would not have that feeling of being at my wits end, of giving up, sometimes of deep despair. I might feel…happy? God forbid. No suffering is better. The act of doing something you do not want to do, is so much more cathartic. It clears your mind.
If I just sat in silence and decided I was going to make art, I would fail. If I go to work and my mind wanders, or I’m on a train without a pen or listening to the same story that they told me yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, my head will flood with ideas. Why?