splatter 22

dear vincent:

you simply made it harder to be an artist during the 20th c. not because yr painting are great - sure they are - but because how alone and fucked up yr life was. every goddamn painter and poet belabors under the myth of the misunderstood genius who is driven mad by poverty and an uncaring public. fuck! now i sit at the mouth of the 21st c w/ a family and mortgage and that myth is full of shit. translation is the key i think to the creative process whatever that process produces. an idea becomes fact only after the labor of creation. and the word 'mortgage' is translated as 'death debt' and man i'm in deep. not because i'm mad or even fucked up like you were. what is a life's work anyway but the process of doing. what you know and think and feel is what matters and as for the uncaring public and fame - that is a sham. you do because you do and there is no reason other than that. pleasure is the fuel that drives the machine. so my dear vincent as i sit here contemplating the influence you had on me as a man and poet i can thank you for nothing. it's not yr fault. it's mine, really. i was young when i found you and fell in love. you were just a fucking bastard who also loved life and work. i greet you at the beginning of what seems a long and difficult century.

love,

richard