I know you must be tired

Book, Megan Chapman © 2019 

 
Where are artists supposed to make art? The art that is slow and takes time and tending to like a wild garden? The art that is messy and fucks up the floor and walls? The art that is political and angry? Where are the artists supposed to go for understanding and sanctuary when they don't fit into the touted creative economy of the commercially viable and sanitised? 

Where are artists supposed to show, when every opportunity is a speculative exercise in exploitation? 

Where do the artists get a foothold when accessibility is not considered and they don't follow the usual stilted art speak? Who is place making for them on the liminal plane?

Screaming from the window

"I am mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore" but what am I supposed to do with this anger?  Should I open the window and scream? Would you like to join me? 

I have so many things I want to say but I don't have the energy to get into it (isn't that what they want). My salty tears and mood are mostly about artists and our continued poor earnings and exploitation and the broken system we are attempting to operate in. My anger is fueled by the myriad of reports (this is the latest) that back that last statement up and the cherry on top is the racist xenophobic radge I sat next to on a recent bus journey.  

I am the master of looking for the positive spin, the humour, and the story of it all but I am really fucking tired of conjuring up this way of coping in order to make other people feel more comfortable or to make my rage more palatable.

So you can see why I am short on words this week. Yelling from the window seems the best option. I will meet you there.