I purchased a book at Third Place Books when I went there about a month ago that is called 50 Northwest Artists.
It’s a book that I looked at a lot in my 20s, and it was something that I think I felt was going to be my life. When I saw the Fay Jones show a month ago, I kind of felt the same way. What I think I am getting at is these people made art and lived a quiet life and it worked out. Now, I feel like it is impossible to do that with out the chaos of keeping up with the internet, going to all of the openings, keeping up with your peers, giving a shit about what is going on in New York, and the Frieze Art Fair. I couldn’t even read the brief article in Vanity Fair about Frieze. It is apparent that no matter how I try, I don’t care.
Originally when I wanted to paint again, it was with the thought of returning to painting the flowers in my backyard, painting Bonnard-esque domestic scenes that are not trying to impress anyone. Joan Mitchell. Although sadly she did care.
When i bought that book, I wanted to meditate on what it originally meant to me to want to be an artist and I guess almost will myself back there.