Real artists are not ironic about their work.  Au contraire, real artists promote their work. Real artists pay homage to their work, its importance and its provenance — they can cite the date that their brush last touched the canvas.  Real artists are able to list all the places where their work is now or has ever been on display, with emphasis properly placed on galleries in major cities, especially New York.  (For pretend artists, any craft fair will do.)

Real artists refer to their paintings as emerging.  (In contrast, mine are either finished, or they’re not.)  Real artists are obliged to inform us who collects their work and where their buyers live.  As one real artist shared on Facebook,  “My painting has been shipped from my Miami gallery to a collector in NYC.  I am thrilled it has a new home for the holidays.  All three in this series are now with collectors in NYC, San Francisco, and London.”  I say, congratulations, you and FedEx must be very happy.

All told, real artists are about as far away from what I do as any respectable artist can get.

It’s not that I wouldn’t like people, maybe even lots of people, to enjoy my art, my writing or my photography.  But, though I make furtive stabs, I can’t sustain the ego it would take to make that happen.

So, not a real artist, no, not at all.  I hereby accept that and move on.