Now there's an industry response. There's a magazine that pummels out 70,000 corantos a week; tomorrow they publish me. It's no short of pivotal that all these ones and zeroes on the cathode tube in front of me are capable of getting me a job in my real life. Art sale is a funny thing, though. Once it's sold, it is the sole right of those in control of the means of production to edit, cut, paste, copy, and distribute. From my animal forebrain it has been emotional. Imagine someone takes your paintings, adds a few brush strokes, crops out a detail here-and-there, then shows it to everyone in your entire city. It's tough to see that happen, but in the same breath, I can see the advantages like a blinding light. From my slowly-germinating wisdom bank it's just another morsel of enlightenment to teach me of the ebb and flow of systems. After all, these guys make a fantastic magazine. There you have the inevitable dichotomy of the cultural marketplace: It's nice to be noticed; It's tough to be critiqued and edited. But you learn from it.
Here's me pleasantly shocked to have my shit revamped by a third party. I'm certainly not complaining about getting free tickets to the hottest shakers in the sexiest city on the orb and getting paid to write about it. That would be preposterous.
I no longer have to mention the local goings-ons on here, due to my new Myspace dedicated to just that, for my new job.
