(Robert Adams, West Edge of Denver, Colorado, circa 1980)
This happens to me every now and then: I need out of the art world. I’ve burned out.
I didn’t go to a single art fair this weekend, which is at once a relief and guilt-making; the latter because, the voice goes, if I were really serious, I’d show my face (to whom, I’m not quite sure).
Relief because I don’t like malls under any circumstance. Relief because in order to continue making work you have to somehow believe that you’re not predictable; that there aren’t seven hundred other people who are approaching it like you are; that “they’ll” actually be able to distinguish you.
At this point I usually stop drawing for a bit, until the itch comes back. And it does. Also, I drain out the ambition, which is better for the drawing anyway.