I am a bad artist. This is not the colloquial use of the term either. I mean bad as in terrible, of base quality, not appealing. This is certainly a hard pill to swallow especially since I fancy myself a creative genius. Perhaps you think that these ideals are mutually exclusive. They are not. In fact, if you truly think you are a good artist then the possibility of genius will forever elude you.
Most of the stuff I make and do repels, at least on the surface. I've put white tempura paint on my hands and arms, clapping furiously under the 'glow' of a black light- serving a kind of new fangled minstrelsy. I’ve performed coitus with a plunger and a roll of toilet paper in front of over 155 people (twice). I've morphed blonde starlets into alien creatures of skin and hair printing these images large scale, engaging a bewildered viewer at best, and, at worst an indifferent one. I even have the nerve to utilize elements of the southern black vernacular tradition and re-present it as fine art, so I’m a copycat too. And a thief. Another thing I’m bad at, since according to the folks that know, I recycle the same victims (i.e. Kara Walker, Ellen Gallagher and Lorraine O’Grady). This list is especially frustrating since my intention was to rip off Marcel Broodthaers, Simone Leigh and John Baldassari. Oh well.
In either case, my plan is to continue growing as a bad artist, one who questions the validity of all physical commentary I create. Who, when standing with the inevitability of my failure(s), willingly places it under the beam of track lighting or the scrutiny of non-profit programing. And so my genius is secure. Watch out for my name in the history books. There will be a party and you are invited. <3