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I got an email a few days ago asking how I was doing and that the person that sent the email had been thinking about me. As I often do I figure I will take that time to link you all or whoever may also be feeling that same feeling.
Times are challenging. As I continue to sort what worth my time as an artist has, how I manage to provide for myself, the suspensions of reality in the face of society and the counter, the belief in believing that brings about through every action is the continuation of the revolutionary promises inside of my being. I still grieve so much, it is easier not to speak about it at large, in the face of countless tragedies, death is a drop in a bucket.
I haven’t written a self-assessment in some years now. As a space of reflection, the brutality of now is hard to deal with. The follow through of making the thing I see as the breath of my thought on how I exist in this world and how an idea of humanity can be expanded through my interactions as an artist is filled with a grand silence. I am wary of my compacity to settle into my thoughts around the thing. The experience, my experience, and how me becomes the “we” pulled out into the open is the most faith that I have. That I am an artist and that meaning is the only thing I truly have is all that stands. I work a day job that involves no art and that I will not delude myself that where I am in life is not the result of doing that thing when and ever I get enough life in me. A question is always there, what is enough?
The men in my life tend to echo a theme. That my education should provide me with opportunities. That that is enough, that the recognition that I have been chosen by these institutions is the level for where I belong. In all my studying I do not argue anymore. I am the product of a free education, and my continued existence is payment for that big intangible thing. It is not opportunity, those only come through the process, and I have picked a process that for most yields with death and if there is a beyond, those doors can only be shopped at through living.
It is romantic to believe that what I have done comes with a kind of guarantee. That I could write my local patron and my priorities will become their priorities in part or in their totality. I see my life as a debt. In the end I will give everything and have nothing. What else is there to do? Is there more to commit? Is there something else outside of this cage of a body that will hold me when? The proof of freedom comes with what? The people and places I have walked away from have their own memory and what am I but a dull knife becoming worn and fragmented with time? I am not a fighter, and as I believe, without cynicism, love being around us, I must be something else, not a reflection, or a shadow, simply, something else.
Over the coming months exhibitions have been proposed. I have very little money, I eat less, I am rarely home, and have few friends, and even less time. There is nothing special in that and me committing this to words is again much the same, nothing special.
If you would like to view any works available, in progress, or otherwise contact me at xxavierismyname@gmail.com.
Until we meet again or not, all the best,
-XEC