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“Impressive, or just large?” Raquel quipped. “It feels a bit like it’s saying, ‘Just so you know, I’ve got a big dick.’”
I already knew how important it is for an artist to protect their time; time, that critical thing required to think and ponder and question and perfect.
Everything worth doing hurts at least a little bit.
“Believe me,” I’d said with a quiet smile, “many more difficult things have happened to me.”
I would wake and, when I went to the studio, it was like entering a trance. Eight or nine or ten hours later, suddenly I was scrounging around for a dinner companion or maybe chatting up a stranger in a bar.
The history of art—like culture in general—is really just a big long conversation among creators,” he continued, leaning in with enthusiasm. “About aesthetics, but also about society and politics and the stuff of modern life.
“The phonies have some savoir faire from time to time.”
Oh, how ridiculously pretentious Raquel found them. The more Belinda Kim exposed her to conceptual art happening outside this canon, the more indulgent she found it.)
Ignored, the best she could, the salty brine of her own tears.
How whatever her mother might lack in polish, she made up for in integrity. In being loving. In supporting her daughters moving forward even if that meant away from her.
Raquel would have to tell her that she was lucky to walk away only losing her hair.
