I received my new Art News New Zealand magazine this morning and for a moment I was excited because it was in a sealed plastic bag just like those ones on the rack in the bookshop with the impossible tits (not the bookshop). I was by myself in my own home, well it's actually rented but it smells like me, and I still furtively looked around to see if anyone was watching as I reached out to pick it up. Now I'm a fuuly (that'll do!) subscripted member of this said magazine and it seemed like a good idea at the time to find out who the art literatis' favourite sons (or even daughters) are but I don't feel like turning a page of the weighty tomb (I did so spell it right!). I don't think it will even light the fire in the morning and sure won't crinkle enough for loo paper. It did look good on the coffee table but already there are assorted chip packets, scummy dishes and other teenage paraphernalia lying on top of it and who am I trying to impress, my sports mad friends?
I might have to try to read it and be depressed again by it's carefully selected seriousness. I wonder when they write about me (and they will!) whether they will find reasons and big words about why I make my art. I hope so then I will know. Shit I enjoy doing it and sometimes just sometimes it looks and feels good (my Mama told me there'ld be days like this).
Mostly it just rains.