I paint to survive, not out of fiscal need but out of fear, the fear of life’s degenerative cadence. I flounder and fly to capture any amount of beauty or tragedy in the face of infinity. Death is the final masterpiece. Perhaps this is why many artists take it upon themselves to create their own end. The masterpiece, as with death, must be done alone. Isolation is needed perhaps as much as the wine and the women.
“Sophia”
My muses are many, though the ideas and inspiration are from an unknown origin. Often I find my breakthroughs in the low, in the fog clarity that only comes in the surreal halftime of humanity. The time between death and dreams.
We know what we know of the masters, of history, from speculation of scholars and manipulated fact. Art is a practice subversive by nature; in turn, the artist alive is a high-risk investment.
Like a precious commodity, he or she is minted when they have been buried in the ground. Dead, they can’t argue about packaging or principles. They can be sold to the highest bidder without any trouble.
I will not settle for this. I will continue to paint. I will demand recognition in my lifetime for I know I am doing things which have never been done, under a constant attack of ideas and innovation.
“The Final Fame of Jean Michel”
