Caught between. One side, the indecipherable angst that tries to drink or drug itself to life in death. At the other side, Teletubby art. Painting is dead: so I must paint. Literature drowned in its own tears in the 1940s, its pale shade leaving forever for Hollywood.
It is not enough to claim no place remains. To say that genius goes unregarded. The work is simple: find hope and spread it out for others to discover. Accept life, demand love and be a vessel for the absolute. I think so often of the Sufi martyr who told on God. Is doubt to be Art? Will American Beauty and Six Feet Under be the Shakespeare of our day? Or is it simply necessary to make a living, rather than even trying to decorate the Void?
It is beyond my ken.