will work to avoid working

push play on this video and listen while you read this post

ding dong the wac is dead. yes, after exactly one year of being in the "warehouse" i am now moved out. in fact, all of us are moved out. thursday night, we received notice that we had 24 hours to vacate the premises, everything that remained would be thrown into dumpsters. this was at 9 pm and quite unexpected, being that i had not been to the warehouse in a few weeks. it was just dumb luck that i was there that night, working on a show smithey and i are collaborating on this week.
apparently, the lease holder of the warehouse had notice for months to be out of the space, and being the case, decided to no longer pay rent, nor inform the artists whose belongings took up about 3000 sq ft, and still he remained, his belongings untouched. either defiant or apathetic, he takes the cake in the realm of poor business ethics.

we, the wac artists, came together though, in a rough and tumble night, not so different from any other night at the wac when an event is at hand, and pulled together to "save the good silverware" if you will. it was nice to be in the warehouse with a majority of the artists at one time again. we had moments of nostalgia, fueled by the adrenaline of the imposing hand of doom that periodically spanked our melancholic asses into gear. we shared a lot in that space, as artists, as friends, as people. i found it quite apropos that we started with a fury and ended in similar fashion. maybe this is what artists really need today, a sense of urgency.

we need to feel that pressing force around us, telling us it cannot work, and we need vindication. we are a group of odd kids, most whose childhood was not so full of innocent endeavors, and this art world is a world that heralds the innocence of color. the joy that centers itself around the playful tendencies of creation. we bask in that glow and we are suddenly okay. we seem to forget that, i think. at least i do. i forget when i am puzzling over brush size and metaphor that i am simply fucking painting. i am doing what third graders do every day between recess and show and tell. i am allowed to play here. that is why i don't clock in. that is why i no longer carry a resume around with me. it is because i can play. and i am damn good at playing when i want to be. it is not always this way though.

most days i sit in my studio, chain smoke marlboro 27's, listen to curtis mayfield or the refused, and ask myself if anyone gives a shit, or if they should. my only consolation is that i give a shit, and my family gives a shit, and my daughter says it is "bootifull daddy" and if that is the case then there must be others out there who feel that too. right? if it is sincere, then people will connect. in fact, i would wager that the only time people can truly connect is when they find the sincerity. it is tough to be sincere when you feel that your voice is a forgery, but you have to know sometimes it doesn't feel that way, and that is what i do this for. because sometimes, i am dancing in that studio and i am singing out loud, and sometimes it just feels right.