The artist spent many sleepless nights self flagellating over how to create lasting meaning from the chaos of her surroundings. What is universal? What is beauty? What is that rustling sound, is there a mouse in this room?
Each day presented itself like the pedestrians of Grand Theft Auto, easily knocked down in droves. And all the while, no police sirens? There was only a perceived draining of importance, a false calm about the world left after subtle siphoning from day to day until everything seemed pale and unworthy of conversation.
Don't you know you need to fight?!
Fight who? I used to fight. It was interesting - you have to keep doing it?
Yes always! Fight for your territory, you can't let some other artist become the person who makes these wacky things. Fight for your wacky things! And REMEBER - clear identity gets you the big bucks.
Fight to be that generator, to be responsible, respectable, abstractedly offered sex on a regular basis by hip kids with Pop Rocks in their overalls.
Don't bore the people.
She picked up a paint brush and dabbed it absently around an image of Crazy Taxi.
Fujiko Mine... Has there ever been an essay written about her character? She was a lone thief and expert in espionage. She had huge tits. She was always getting into pissing contests with Lupin the 3rd who greatly respected her steez. A Byronic hero, little is known about what she did when off screen, though she seemed a figure of perfect pirate nobility swinging in with a machine gun. Courting the megalomaniacal rich man to be robbed blind by the next scene. Hanging off the edge of a cliff, falling into the ocean, dodging bullets from her lover's gun. She had a Browning M1910 in her garter at all times. The gun which was used to assassinate archduke Franz Ferdinand whose name will forever conjure a faint recapitulation of his more recent song "Take Me Out".
Sitting across the room in a Cassina Cab Chair staring at a newly completed Crazy Taxi, the artist imagined this image hanging next to a Brice Marden. It could work next to one with yellow squiggles in a nice flat on the Upper West Side with a bay window and minimal furniture. Then she imagined it next to a Caravaggio. This pairing would work in a 1970s Texas Ranch.
Not at all.
Meet the people half way. If your art takes too much time to digest, then it will pass through half chewed and be remembered as a painful shit. But don't make it too easy, your audience will become anemic.
How to make it.
A shade of difference from the next guy combined with appropriation of common signs. Have the market act out your wet dreams with household objects immortalized in bronze, and they'll happily adorn you with shiny beads for telling them about themselves. Because we all share a mind. Our dreams are the same. Singular. To spread through each other.
Unless you'd rather have your space.