Phantoms of an Imagined Self...

Earlier today, I was cleaning out the studio. It seems like this is one task that I am always doing. I am always trying to find the perfect space to freely create. With this particular new space, I think I need to edit down the visuals. In my last studio, it was crazy small and somehow it felt right that I should make it into a nest of images, art, and warmth. The new space dictates that I remove a lot of what I had crammed in before.

While I was working to get rid of things, I came across a box filled with pictures and books and various mementos from my past. I realized that one of the books was actually my journal. I had cleverly removed the binding off of a random book and put my own pages inside. I thought this would deter any prying eyes and protect my most valuable ideas.

You know, I'm nothing like I thought I'd be. I found a map I drew out of my future and realized that I've pretty much ignored it completely. In this imagined timeline, I already own my own gallery. At the time I wrote that, I was throwing art parties in lofts in Brooklyn with Indie bands and local artists. If I had kept the momentum up, maybe I would have... who knows?

I found a book of matches tucked in between some of the pages. It had the name of a deli in SoHo. I remember this book of matches well. At one point, one of my biggest aspirations was to become the world's next biggest Art Star. Whatever that means, I don't know, but I wanted it. I even auditioned to be on a reality television show called, "Art Star." The show never really took off. Although it was in the vein of Project Runway, it was a Deitch Project and the focus on the artists seemed to be diverted towards the gallerist and his achievements. After standing in line for hours in the cold, my portfolio was briefly flipped through without much consideration. I could hear them whispering about their lunch orders. I was so disappointed and angry that I had wasted so much time that I marched over to the deli and got a book of matches and tried to set my portfolio on fire in front of the gallery as a sign of protest. I figured that if they wanted sensationalism, then I would give them SENSATIONALISM! It was too cold and slightly drizzly and the portfolio never caught. Each time I struck a match, it just went out. I look back on that moment and count myself lucky. What would have happened if I had gotten on the show? Or if my portfolio had gone up in flames and caused me to be arrested? 15 seconds of fame? 15 years of prison for arson?

In the book, I found a lot of ghosts of what could have been. A list of baby names... an itinerary for my trip to Europe... postcards of shows I wanted to see... leaves from trees now gone and long fallen... a drawing of a future that never happened.

Things didn't turn out the way I had imagined them. I could be haunted by the ghosts of things that never were, but I'm happy in my own way. Things are far from perfect, but I've found my peace in this struggle.