1MAN

     There is a voice, as an artist, that introduces itself after you sell your first piece. Spotty, like a transistor radio, but persistent, like conscience. It lives on my shoulders, my neck, my back - peeks around and whispers, anytime I create something, “Who’s going to buy that?”​

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     Periodically, I kill this voice. A regular thing: like the cycle of the moon, or tides. I grab it by the throat and squeeze. Paint with one hand, murder with the other. I create something no one would want. A Fuck You to everyone who wants what’s pretty. You don’t get there for free. You have to wade through these with me, my “Grotesqueries.”