I stumbled upon this blog. I have had a lot to do with mental illness over the past 30 odd years and this is not my own. It appears that every second person I was involved with and my family members included were demonstrating some kind of diagnosable mental condition. The thing is, I still seem to be interested in mental conditions. You would think I have had enough. But no; I am still sucked into reading about troubled people and the above linked personal diary by a disturbed artist is riveting reading. She has the horrible bipolar thingy. The one that causes highs and lows and sexual promiscuity and all that interesting stuff that is so valuable for an artist to have.
See she is interesting and I am boring. Why? Because I am happy. This absolutely ruins any kind of art career of course. I am destined to plod along with my silly paintings for the rest of my life confident in the fact that no-one is going to take any notice of them ( or me) whatsoever. I'm not troubled enough to be of interest. See we artistic types are supposed to be trainwrecks. We gotta cut off our ears and send them to girls who have rejected our advances and do all that kind of interesting stuff before we become worthy of any kind of attention. Lifes gotta be tragic, difficult, untenable poverty filled and above all depressing before the world should consider taking any interest in our work. Because if like me you are pathetically happy-- well you got nothing to say that is worthwhile have you? See what I mean. Even writing this silly post really has no purpose. where's the angst? It just doesn't challenge you does it? And of course if you are happy you are not very intelligent. If you are bright you can see life is just a crock of shit. if you actually accept everything around you as fine and dandy- then you are too stupid for words.
Look. I could go on and on like this for pages but I think you all get the point. Goodnight from a stupid man who dreams of one day being what the world would consider worthy of being called an artist.