no.1
Today I sold 4 original paintings.
Yesterday I hated everything I was doing.
This is the very first entry of a diary I have been thinking about doing for some time; so, I fell off of the writing wagon, in September 2021 I genuinely ran out of things to say; I’m not a business mogul, nor am I a productivity wizard. I'm an artist — and I just want to make art. When you are on a writing platform like Medium, you better have something to say, and I didn’t.
What the hell am I even saying?
This diary is a little bit of an experiment for myself and the platform, I have a lot to say now and I know the way I want to say it; informal diary entries of random thought vomit, based on me the protagonist, trying to be an artist, like Bridget Jones, it is almost still the beginning of the year, and I felt like I could write my own story through the eyes of, well, myself. ‘My journey to becoming an artist’, ‘How I made millions as a self-taught, half-arsed, shabby artist’, or something like that. I can do this, I can write an entry a day on what it feels like to do this. I hate doing this.
Today I picked up some of my work from a pop-up shop a couple of counties away; my prints and originals had been displayed there since mid-December and I had no feeling towards what I could have sold or not; after many frustrating markets and shop experiences, I was feeling indifferent about the whole situation. My art wasn't selling, in order to fix that, I was making new art.
But my art did sell, I hit my goal early this year and sold an original. Granted it was a small piece worth no more than £45, but it was an original nonetheless, and I sold four of these small pieces to complete strangers that have never heard of me until they walked into that shop and handed my art across the counter to purchase, take home, and put it above their mantel, or in their bedroom. Hopefully somewhere nice. The art I made was nice, it deserves a nice spot.
I've sold art.
I sold four originals.
What do I do now?
Just when I thought that my art was a piece of shit and that I in turn was a piece of shit, four people bought four pieces, or conceivably one person bought all four — that's not the point. I don't know what the point is, I don't know what I'm doing.
I want to be an artist.
I don't know what I'm doing. Do I?
Fuck.
