Here's how this works: I "spin" the wheel on my camera roll, so to speak. And blindly select a random picture when it stops.
I'm in the midst of an existential crisis. I don't think it's possible to be an artist and not suffer at least three or four of these a year. It's maddening and dangerous to continuously expose your psyche to the entire universe...leaving your mortal wounds wide open for salty scrutiny and criticism. I'm not sure how I do it. I'm not sure how anyone does.
Once again I've landed on a partially edited image - one taken nearly two years ago. I look at it now and wonder why I took it. What was so fascinating to me about this particular scene? Was it the leading lines? The wonky juxtaposition? Perhaps the rustic RED wall?
Don't get me wrong; I think it's a fantastic shot. If I saw it in someone else's street portfolio I'd either be a bit jealous or inspired...or both. But I have this overwhelming sense that it means nothing. That ultimately, who the fuck really cares?
So why do I take pictures, create images, write words, wear my insides out? Why do I continue subjecting my raw and fragile heart to this madness?
I'm an artist. Asking me to stop - asking myself to stop - is essentially asking me to never breathe again.
The irony that today - on a day when I'm being a ridiculous drama queen about the meaning of it all - I've randomly chosen an image entitled 'A Road to Nowhere' does not escape me. So now I'll slither off to some dank corner with my camera and a coffee to contemplate the deeper meaning of THAT...or lack thereof.