Joel Holub

Song of Self Fulfillment
(Wishfully for RW)

There are so many of us out there. A milky way with a few of us twinkling faintly. Oh never mind the bright delineated constellations. To say us sounds so much less lonesome, but still far away from any comfort. I am what I call a single artist. An artist alone. I know you may not have heard the expression, say, as you have heard of, the emerging artist. But if you would allow me this chance to explain, you’ll see that it makes perfect sense. As I say it – single, I know it becomes one of those words caught in the stilted claws of quotation marks. By single I mean, unrepresented, without gallery, agent or patron, neither collector nor curator. And, yes it is so very similar to being single in more common, lonely, lovelorn way. I want to say exactly, but it does seem a bit unessential and business-like to connect such a status to. And yet all the emotions of courtship and spurned romantic desires remain the same. Oh thank goodness I’m gainfully engaged in all that love business,,, not a problem. But to be a single artist is so much like the lack of a romantic relationship. All the weary rationales to buttress and buoy the singular soul: yes I must travel a different road, go it alone, no one sees me for who I am, and my worth is not appreciated because of its uncommon brilliance, or, I don’t need that ridiculous bullshit, its all a trap I’m far to smart to be snared by it. Yes I am a single artist,,,
Maybe I have a chance to fail at failure, but there is hope of success. I think I may put this scribbling on a blog. Perhaps I could be writer as well as a visual artist, yes , , , join in on this scintillating universe, as if to become one with the chorus of radio waves from remote and distant celestial objects.