Being a young artist is fucking hard. As soon as you finish university they kick you out the door with a diploma in your hand and massive debt and leave you on the street with just enough money to buy a beer. The place that used to be your home is now home to others. The area where uni is, is turned into a black hole where everybody is suffering from depression as a result of their new found “freedom”.
So what do you do? You move. You move away from the south to the north. You start over. You find a new house, friends, creative community, job and maybe if you’re lucky, a studio. I’ve spent the last year working in a sex shop, making harnesses and spanking paddles. My bedroom is my studio. The only material I can afford is cement and I thrive on freebies from work. I open my door and smell the free-cycled lube and see the cement and materials/objects I found on the street. And I wouldn’t change it for the world. Yes, sometimes it’s hard and I really wish I had some exceptional talent in maths or science, but most of the time its fucking great. Who else can say that they wake up everyday surrounded by possible masterpieces and opportunity? I made a choice, I live, I create.