Very good question.
One would have to answer a few other questions before addressing that one though. For example…
Who am I?
I am all kinds of things. The list of labels that apply to me is exhaustive. I’ve been called every single name in the book. I usually refer to myself by the label my mother gave me, Tamara, or one of a few derivatives thereof, depending on the intimacy of the audience.
What am I?
I am all kinds of things. The list of my duties and capabilities is exhaustive. I’ve been everything to a bunch of people, and nothing to everybody else. Mostly I’m a human.
When am I?
I’m mid way through what’s turning out to be a shitty fucking life in a shitty fucking world.
Where am I?
In a shitty fuckin world, read above.
Why am I?
Well, that ones easy enough to answer, biologically speaking that is.
Metaphorically speaking…someone sent me here for something.
I guess that doesn’t really answer the question above, and I don’t believe there is any way to answer it aside from pointing you to my work. Maybe this whole exercise is an effort for me to reassure myself that I am indeed here at any rate, even though I can’t answer the question.
I dunno, I’m reading all this shit about the status of arts, and funding cuts, the rhetoric, the blah di blah like we’re NOT talking about the future here.
Artists create the future through their expression of their vision. What they see is entirely dependant on the rest of creation, displaying itself for our study and re-creation.
I’ve spent the last few years of my life devoted to the observation and re-creation of a simple group of people… musicians. More specifically independant, struggling, starving drug addicted, insanity infested, hard nosed rock gods. Those lacklustre free spirits who roam the streets untended, unloved, and unchecked, lugging their instruments around like security blankets against a bitter cold world that seems to have no time or place for them, but somehow they feel a compulsion to serve. And survive.
We all learn by observation, and all I feel I’ve learned from my beloved is that I am a lacklustre spririt emprisoned, walking the streets cold, wet, and unwanted, lugging my dead spirit around like a shroud hiding me from the sun that for sure must be out there somehwere if I could only see it.
If only I could see myself…
If only others could see me.
And that’s why I am here. To see and be seen. To bear witness. If you want to see concrete illustrations of how lacklustre society’s vision is for artists, watch the Anterockstar series… if you want to see how lustrous my boys are…. watch my moments.
And they do it wihout any help from anybody…. except each other.
And I love them for it.