Wikipedia reports that the above phrase was the title of an Elvis Costello album recorded in the 90s. Elvis gave it that moniker in the expectation that the music would be largely ignored, and he was proven correct. The album tanked. I doubt that I’ve heard any of the tracks, but the phrase stuck in my mind.
My work as an artist has largely been met with indifference when it comes to sales, and I can look at rack after rack filled with still lives, landscapes, portraits, narrative paintings that I made to discover or feel something new. They are the remnants of my explorations, markers on a map, and as such are useless even if occasionally beautiful.
The involuntary sequestering of my work used to bother me, but does so less and less. I’m glad that I made all those prints, paintings and drawings, and it’s too late to take them back. I didn’t waste my time even if they end up in a dumpster after I’m dead. I believe that the thoughts and feelings they revealed still echo through the ether, still send out ripples of influence if only through the marks they made on me. Making them changed me, and changed the way I interacted with the world around me.
I sometimes see God as a flamboyant creator. All these galaxies of stars! All these creatures clamoring for life, all these souls yearning for truth and beauty. Such complexity and such simplicity wrapped together in a bundle of bundles as one universe births another. Is there any point to all this? Is it just an exuberant outpouring, an endless process of becoming?
There’s probably no point in worrying about what Creation means. Perhaps it’s enough to watch in wonder and add a little bit to all this useless beauty.