Art Whore's Lament

This month marks two very important milestones in my career: my fourth involuntary termination of employment in five years, and the twenty-fifth anniversary of my life as an art whore.

When I was young and fresh out of college, I could legitimately define myself as an "artist." I painted, drew, and sculpted, and I did them all well. I had talent and promise. Every one of my creations was an act of love -- both a love of self-expression and a love for the creative process itself. Then, like the traditional prostitute who sells her only possession of value in order to survive, I, too, turned to the streets to ply my wares. I became an artist for hire.

At first it wasn't all that bad. One might argue that it was almost a glamorous life. I was at the height of my abilities, enthusiastic, and master of techniques and tools that the general public still considered exotic. I could command top dollar from the highest-class clients who truly appreciated what I had to offer.

But now I'm older. I am like the aging hooker who finds that she has to compete for business against a growing crop of young seductresses, far more energetic and supple than she. I am no longer welcome in the posh lobbies of 5-star hotels but must now seek my livelihood in seedy commercial district back alleys, turning meaningless tricks for one corporate John after another, each insisting that I "do it" the way they like it or I won't get paid.

Ode to Waterhouse's "Windflowers"

(I'm not even sure this is technically an ode.)

The artist's model denies my embrace
Dying a century before me

Barren strip mall parking lots
Shroud zephyred grass that once licked her naked feet

Beauty departed leaves me infinitely sad
There is never resurrection