I have a terrible habit of sabotaging my own art career. Instead of painting cheerful cottages, inspirational sunsets, unicorns grazing beneath double rainbows, or whatever sensible people might choose to hang above the lounge room sofa, I keep finding myself recreating scenes from my nightmares. Nobody asked for this. There is no booming market for unsettling dream fragments dragged kicking and screaming out of the subconscious and onto paper. Yet for some reason that seems to be exactly what I’m compelled to make.
The story behind this particular dream will remain where it belongs, trapped inside my skull. I’m not interested in providing an artist statement, a psychological breakdown or a guided tour through the symbolism. Once the drawing leaves the kitchen table it becomes yours. You can find meaning in it, invent meaning for it, completely misunderstand it, or decide it’s a load of nonsense and keep scrolling.
That seems more interesting than me telling you what to think.
Maybe that’s another form of self sabotage too.
