I never stroke my chin when considering a piece of art/writing/music, unless it's to purposely smell the nicotine on my fingers to distract me from the odoriferous stench of flower infused cat-piss that everyone has dabbed on their neck and wrists. Nor do I indulge in conversation of art critique. You either like it, or you don’t. No need to spew endless “knowledge” of this and that technique. I appreciate the passion, but, more often than not, the sincerity is lost in the elitist masterbatorial tone.
I don’t care how much success you’ve had as an artist, never name your child after your favorite artist, city or another last name, i.e.
I hope to never look “smashing” or “dignified”. I prefer snot-dripping belly-laughs as opposed to shallow guffaws. I’d rather break-dance your fox-trot. If you like my art, I prefer you down a handle of whisky and pass out screaming, instead of lipping a mimosa and giving an opera clap that you can’t even hear because you’re wearing shoulder-length gloves in the middle of summer. Comfort over fashion, daaaaaling. If someone asks what you do, be specific—like a painter, sculpter, musician or writer. Never refer to yourself as an artist. It makes me queezy.
Lastly, there is nothing more pretentious than a bitter artist who hasn’t found “success”, and has nothing better to do than to write about and disgrace those who have. Fuckers.