A Letter to a Doctor

ED, 2013, small works, acrylic on polymer paper

 

Dear Dr. C,

I am a creature of the margins; someone who cannot function as a part of the machine that human society creates of itself, someone who sees this inability as an indication of a higher calling.

Society may be cruel to the likes of mine, but there are always those who are not blind to the clandestine beauty. We recognize each other in the midst of crowds like members of some secret society. We depend on mutual recognition; otherwise who else will notice us?
I am doing my best to function in the retched machine, but its labyrinths are scarier than the untamed monsters of my dreams or dangerous cycling on the busy roads at dusk. I am willing to demonstrate courage to myself and to those few who notice, risking my life in order to quench thirst for acknowledgment I desire but cannot obtain.

I am doing my best to reveal the signs from the realm of unconscious whose agent I consider myself to be, but I cannot find a way to turn my work into commerce, my fear of labyrinths setting me back.

Art I am practicing is self-imposed solitude measuring to nothing in today's values.

For years I have been struggling to enter the labyrinths of mundane, but I paused at their portals long enough to learn to get satisfaction from occasional appreciation rather than actual currency. I work for recognition of a few lacking the fortitude to attach price tag to my works.

I came to your office with empty pockets. You are not blind to the shining of my inspirations. I ask you to lead me through the horrifying entries of labyrinths into human practical existence.

My art is all I can offer as a pay for your services.