Portrait of the artist as a banker
For every dutiful daughter who trains herself to be deaf to her own heart, who keeps selling her parents' simplistic recipes for a happy existence to herself day-in-day-out hoping desperately she'll buy them some day.
For every artist who's had the audacity to ignore fire in their bosoms to keep fire far away from their families' stomachs, to live half-lives in the land of cubicles and copiers.
For every sister who swears to persevere despite the odds to ensure that her siblings won't share her fate, but wakes up each day to the precarious puzzle of where to draw even a scrap of energy to go on.
These stories are yours. I'm not sure they ned to be told, but I'll tell them anyway.
* * *
I am an artist. Or at least, I used to be. My earliest childhood memories were of learning how to look at the world and see beauty. I have been forced into a great many molds by people with the best of intentions and the numbest of hearts, but all I ever learned from these half-hearted but ostensibly more useful occupations was to look at the world and see more beauty.
Although I wish the case were otherwise, I am not telling this story to cater to some higher purpose. At best, it would be the mildly entertaining rants of someone who was too chicken to stand up for something she believed in. Let's put it out there, it won't be pretty and it will be selfish and resentful. So if I'm beginning to smog up your sunny blue skies, stop reading now.
To be continued...
For every artist who's had the audacity to ignore fire in their bosoms to keep fire far away from their families' stomachs, to live half-lives in the land of cubicles and copiers.
For every sister who swears to persevere despite the odds to ensure that her siblings won't share her fate, but wakes up each day to the precarious puzzle of where to draw even a scrap of energy to go on.
These stories are yours. I'm not sure they ned to be told, but I'll tell them anyway.
* * *
I am an artist. Or at least, I used to be. My earliest childhood memories were of learning how to look at the world and see beauty. I have been forced into a great many molds by people with the best of intentions and the numbest of hearts, but all I ever learned from these half-hearted but ostensibly more useful occupations was to look at the world and see more beauty.
Although I wish the case were otherwise, I am not telling this story to cater to some higher purpose. At best, it would be the mildly entertaining rants of someone who was too chicken to stand up for something she believed in. Let's put it out there, it won't be pretty and it will be selfish and resentful. So if I'm beginning to smog up your sunny blue skies, stop reading now.
To be continued...