How (not) to write an artist statement.

Me, sitting down with a cup of coffee, my brain and a computer:

Brain: You can do this.

Me: Right, focus.  Okay, *reading* “please submit a short artists statement (around 150 words)” —haha, they left off the apostrophe.

Brain: Stop being mean.  At least they wrote something.

Me: Yes, okay.  Let’s see…This series of paintings is a series of paintings about… God, that’s awful.  *grabs sticky notes, writes “Try and sound human” and sticks to monitor*  That’s better. The painting is one of many in a series about whimsy…I wonder if politicians have similar post-its stuck all over their houses and offices?  Ha.

Brain: Focus.

Me: Right.  Sebbie and Oma’s Teapot is the most recent painting of paintings of Sebbie…  *stares off into space*  Is devenir how you say “to become” in French?  Or have I bastardized the Italian word, “devenire” by chopping off the e at the end and pretending it’s French?  

Brain: seriously.

Me: No, no, it’s okay, I’ll just look it up quick; it’ll bug me if I don’t check.  *googles*  Devenir.  That’s right.  I think I bastardized the French to make fake Italian actually.  Just look that up quick too.  *more  googling*  Diventare.  Yep, I did.  I’ve been living an English speaking country for too long.  How can I pull off moving back to Europe?

Brain: ARTIST STATEMENT

Me: Right.  But do I remember how to conjugate devenir?  

Brain: NO.

Me: Alright. Tanya Harsch is a person with fabulous hair.  Her paintings are images without polkadots. 

Brain: Try again.

Me:  Fine.  Sebbie and Oma’s Teapot…  Something.  This painting is one of a series of paintings depiction my childhood toy puppet, Sebbie, encountering adventures.  In this piece, he is asking for tea from a teapot styled as a cat.   The teapot has particular sentimental associations for me, as it belonged to my grandmother and I spent many a childhood meal, seated at her table admiring the teapot on its shelf.  I’m out of coffee.  I wonder how many paintings a year I’d have to sell to be able to afford to pay someone to write these things for me? 

Brain: You’re so close, just focus, just get it written, and then you can ignore it until tomorrow when I make you re-read it and proof it.

Me:  A secretary would be nice.

Brain: This is why artists drink.

Me: Oh, shut it.  How many words is that?  *counts*  Sixty three.  Bollocks.  What else do I say?  Let’s see… I paint toys because they bring so much happiness to people.  I started painting them nearly accidentally, bored in the studio one day, and found it to be so much fun.  I thought, “I’ll paint another, maybe a series of three…”  Little did I know, 50 paintings later, I’d still be happily playing with toys.  Does that sound stupid?  

Brain: Shhhh, just keep writing.

Me: I find people often connect to my work because they find a nostalgia in it, a connection to their own childhood.  I don’t even know if that’s true.  Most people just say, “wow, I love your paintings!”

Brain: Then leave it out.

Me: Yes, but word count.  Who invented artist speak, and how do I find them?  

Brain: Why?

Me: I’d like to send them a box of crickets.

Brain:  What?  Wait, never mind, I’m not getting dragged into this, let’s get back on task.

Me: I hear crickets are particularly hard to find and get rid of once they’re in your house, and they make that lovely noise to annoy you.

Brain: *through gritted teeth* ARTIST STATEMENT

Me: You do realize, in this hypothetical argument, I’ve just given my brain its own set of teeth?  Where does it keep them? 

Brain: Shhhh.  Quiet time.

Me: Oh, do I have 150 words already?

Brain: No, of course not, you didn’t have them before, you don’t have them now.  They don’t magically write themselves.

Me: Oh, magic self-writing artist statements, I’d be all over that.

Brain: I give up.

Me: Maybe I’ll just go paint for a little bit, come back to the writing when fresh… Don’t know why these things take me so long.

Brain: *hides under covers.  plays dead*