The Wreck of Hope

Caspar David Friedrich, The Wreck of Hope, 1821

Sometimes I come across concise takes on existential questions that bring great relief. This week I was graced by two.

First: I’ve always worried about being judgmental because nice, good people aren’t judgmental. Nice, good people are open-hearted and self-effacing. This week I absorbed the idea that you can be judgmental and compassionate at the same time. You can think a person sucks and also listen to – and maybe be swayed by – where she’s at.

The second take comes from Betsy Lerner, who writes the only blog I look forward to (link below). I had planned to write a post considering how and especially why (the fuck) do I keep going with the art shit when there’s so much rejection, so much competition, so much pukiness involved. Why do I keep adding to my stack of drawings. Is it because it’s all about the work? Is it because I’m nobly engaged in a process and journey? Partially.

But this rings truer: the motor is revenge.