It's becoming obvious to me that I don't really have the time to work on this at present, mostly because I work too much. But that's not the complete reason (or excuse), though something managing to represent completeness would be very involved. Leave it at this, that I have priorities, and many things competing for my time, not least of all a very demanding job, and most of all a family, including two wee ones. It may sound sappy for me to say that the wee ones, as well as my dearest wife Kathleen (not only the dearest but only wife), offer the opportunities for psychic combustion on the level of Shakespeare at every turn, but it's true, at least in a way. It, of course, depends almost fully on my engagement.
This is also true of work and art. When people whine at me (and believe me brothers [and sisters, as well], I'm with you on that) that their work is nothing like their art, that art is freedom and work is slavery, that work makes them miserable and art redeems them -- though they may not currently be making art because, in a way, it makes them miserable as well -- all I can offer is to say that they can try looking at things differently, just pretend perhaps, that it is different than one imagines it, since the way we imagine it is the way we imagine it.
What Beuys meant when he claimed that everyone is an artist, is to point out that a tremendous amount of creative activity takes place in our lives everyday, as is necessary to get through life, including work. And implicit in this creativity a particular style, a "style of life". You, worker bee, have little idea what you are up to. And if you were more aware, then maybe you'd have a little more respect for your efforts. Your efforts: these may be belittled by the opinions and expectations of others. But that's merely part of the game. You are an exquisite furnance of drama and activity.
Like it or not.
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