It's a bold thing to lay claim to owning. Maybe it's even presumptuous, like reading letters not intended for you.
An official statement may even border on assigning order to the wildlands. You overstep. You're only a blunderer, lying to yourself.
Because after all, what the artist think(more)s is only trivia. People form their opinions and what those opinions are remain none of your business.
Hard to swallow but it's true.
An artist goes in punching, and it's determined later on where the blows have landed.
If I have an artist statement it's something written down and folded up long ago, like a note you pass in class:
do you love me: yes no maybe.
Or the miscellaneous pieces of paper you crumple and hide. Teacher's notes, all refined scolding and blotted ink.
The $2 bill from your mom's purse whose wrinkled texture and soft brown tint remind you somehow of tears wept behind a closed door.(less)
I was alone in the clearing. The table, of course, cleared itself, then imploded, returning to the fictional Viking feasting hall from whence it probably came.
It was over. No more adventure, no more conflict. The End. The death of a story. Not so (more)much Happily Ever After, as Just Plain Done.
I shuffed through the grass, barefoot as always, through two trees, and heard a small bright bell.
It was the pale fellow. He straddled a white bicycle, leaning with his arms loosely crossed on the handlebars.
"Oh, I thought everyone was gone. Is this your little universe?"
He rested his chin in one hand, smiling without teeth. His slicked back hair gleamed in the failing light.
"Every little universe is mine. The big ones, too."
"Greedy much?" I laughed.
He kept smiling. "Believe me, or don't. Every universe becomes mine eventually. This one is yours, for a little longer, but you'll soon be done with it."
"Beg pardon? According to who?"
He didn't answer, just kept smiling with lips shut tight. I wondered if he even had teeth.
"Oh, I do, but this isn't the time or place for them. And I don't use them for smiling."
"I didn't say anything aloud." Jesus, what new horror was this guy?
He sat back, stretched, kept smiling, like my statement was amusing.
"Anyway. I'm going to go curl up somewhere, with a book, and forget all this. Maybe take a nap."
"Nah. You're done here. It's time to go."
"You know, I have just had a hell of a time, and -" he cut me off, like lifting a boiling kettle.
"It's time to go. I've got something for you. Two things, actually."
"Bloody interloper, trying to horn in on my artistic statement-"
"Shh. The song is starting."