The Call to Artists

The call that artists receive from other artists…

“Hey, I am calling you, but no, I do not want to speak to you.” I am calling you because of some overwhelming and innate desire to see your work, to piss on it, to say mine is better.
No, I am not your friend.

Artists don’t have friends.

But yes, I do want to see your work.

And before I take a good close look, I hate it.

And now…

Oh wait, yes, don’t worry I hate you too, now that I’ve come all the way out here to see this work I hate, I’ve suddenly realized I have an overwhelming burning hatred deep inside my soul for you–not just your work, but you.

Look at how you fuck the camel hair on your brushes. Look at the splatters everywhere. You use a can? A straw? That’s not art. You’re not an artist. You’re a fake, and I hate you. Goddamn Lasceaux straw blowing fool.

Your work isn’t even work. It’s garbage. You are Delaware and your ‘art?’ Your so-called ‘art’ is an attempt at weening what little hope you have of feeling for any of the pathetic minstrels we now call humans from your hands onto canvas. It has nothing to do with form or color or line. Your ‘art’ is self-serving creative masturbation. Intellectual vanity at its worst with the highest of labels. Salingerian in its scope of phony. You sick, sad fuck.

“Do you have any wine? How did you mix that red? Where’s that girl, the pretty one with the curl in her hair that’s always around? The one that brings you bread and cheese for lunch? You know, the one we all love?” She has a kiss on the left side of her cheek, right here?
Yes, that’s her name.
I hate her too.

What if these miserable stains of ink were to practice meditation? What if their calling wasn’t so wrapped up in their egos and emotions? What if these people were professional and on time, and practiced controlled fits of meditation where work fell out of their tongues and hands and eyes and poured onto their canvas or onto paper? These people are the practitioners of something called design.
Artists hate them the absolute most. Warrior visual poets sent from hell to make artists look like the wineo burnouts they are in movies. Modi with a Cuban accent. Designers aren’t actors, we might use drama, but only for a purpose, not the chaos it causes or some perverted sense of the warps in the wrinkles of time like Dali. 

We’ll clean you up, or we’ll leave you out. Or, maybe, just maybe, we’ll be both. You can have your dark corners and your cigarettes and coffee and your too-skinny, too tight jeans. We prefer comfort to suffrage. We have received the call from those artists. We chose to hang up the phone…
As a disclaimer, I must say I consider myself both a practicing artist and a professional designer. For those of you who are professional, practicing artists, this is not meant for you. I admire and respect you greatly and as a professional designer, I would gladly practice professional art professionally as a practitioner of art for the purpose of bringing income–at least, in practice. I am envious and hope to follow a path that bridges many of the gaps so often thrown up between our ilk.
 And maybe one day I too will make the call and don the jeans and pretend to be Italian and sad when I am Cuban and happy. Maybe being an artist is just being a circle within oneself.

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