an excerpt from "cat's eye" by margaret atwood
context: narrator is an artist, walking into a gallery in toronto a few days before her retrospective will open. she is a landscape artists from the west coast.
"This gallery is not totally sterilized, there are touches of cutting edge: a heating pipe shows, one wall is black. I don't give a glance to what's still on the walls, I hate those neo-expressionist dirty greens and putrid oranges, post this, post that. Everything is post these days, as if we're all just a footnote to something earlier that was real enough to have a name of its own." (86)
just a footnote? at the end of another page? what is it called any more, post-post-modern-modern?
trying to cope with theories and materials, i dug my way through art and theory school, form and matter. text and images. too-long essays and dozens of books. paintings too expensive to ship from spain.
i have a paper just to prove i finished. but i can't help but think its just another tick on the to-do list of life. sometimes. i think my art and writing skills attest, even if its the slightest that i put four years to good use.
i want to do something with my brain sometimes. you know, creatively.
chelseabird mentioned a zine the other day, the artist of the office, and i think i could use a copy of it. coping.