My Art

My paintings are beginning to scare me. First, there are so many of them I have no room for my sculptures, which are formless pieces of dried clay with no purpose except to keep my hands busy. Someone recently described my work as phallic. I wish it were a critic. Sales would skyrocket. Right now sales are flat because I'm not exhibiting anywhere. The reason is my fear of not being able to explain the nuances of my art to interested visitors. I would have to say something like Post-Paranoid Impressionism, or Retro Enlightenment Expressionism or Flagrant Abstraction.
Truthfully, I don't have the patience to draw an orange. I used to spend hours painstakingly sketching accurate portrayals of fire hydrants. Then I saw I could just take a hydrant photo in a second and accomplish the same thing. So I dug deep into myself, became engrossed in mixing colors and slashing shapes across the canvas. I use cheap brushes because genius does not need the best tools. Consequently, hair comes out of the brush and winds up in the oils. I tell people I did it purposely as an experiment. Everyone dressed in black nods in understanding.
As I said, my art is not warm and fuzzy. If you look closely, creatures reside within the shapes-- ugly, possibly disturbed beings. I keep canvases in my overflowing closet and barricade the door. Just in case. That still leaves my strange sculptures lying on shelves, conspiring against me, the way we curse God, our Creator.
I do have the option of darts or pool to fill the time. Phallic indeed.