This morning I awoke to find my inbox FLOODED with other, new commission requests. Wow. I guess people liked what they saw.
Looks like things are going to be busy around here… No, wait, things are ALREADY busy around here. Whatever.
I like the commissioned work. It means I don’t have to drive 200 miles to El Paso airport and hop on a flight to Chicago. It means I don’t have to spend thousands of dollars on a silkscreen job. It means I don’t have to mess around with a PowerPoint deck, or proofread a book manuscript.
Just me, a few pens, some paper, a Tablet PC, an internet connection, a pot of strong coffee, and I’m in business.
Of course, if commissions were all I was doing, day in, day out, I’d be bored shitless within a month. The fact is, I like the flights to Chicago; I like the silkscreen jobs, the proofreading and the PowerPoint decks. I like the conferences and the speaking gigs. I like to keep mixing it up, even if yeah, it does exhaust me sometimes.
The problem with being an artist isn’t the art. It’s the crazy, unrelenting, over-extended existence that comes with it.