“All art comes from terrific failure and terrific needs that we have. It is about the difficulty of being a self because one is neglected. Everywhere in the modern world there is neglect, the need to be recognized, which is not satisfied. Art is a way of recognizing oneself.”
Louise Bourgeois
A sculpted arm reaches out of a stone. The hand looks real, but cold. You can see what the stone looked like before the artist carved and polished it, because the uncut part is still attached to the arm.
He had a bad feeling that his dog, his mother, or his best friend was going to suddenly turn on him one day. Just wheel about and snarl, maybe even bite him. He awaited the betrayal.
Under tremendous pressure, pitchers throw strikes and balls. A huge crowd of people is yelling, screaming, writhing, dancing, and stomping. The chaos is supportive.
The neighbors, who used to be boys, suddenly turn up in a photo, and they are men.
Of course I’m selfish. I’m the only person alive. Think about it. It’s true. When I die, you all die with me. So close your eyes and stick your hand into a giant bowl of warm, wet, cooked noodles. It’s a bowl of brains. You’d better believe it.