It was one of those super realistic ones.And it was the future. I was at dinner with some people and someone asked me what I did for a living. I told them that I had worked in art administration, and at this museum and that museum but that about five years prior I had written my co-memoirs with my best friend; mostly to get her motivated because she was such an amazing writer and we had so many amazing stories to tell. Well, the book was wildly successful and so I was given a deal to write several other novels, so I did. And I loved it. In this dream, apparently. Because I was using my all gushing and passionate, breathy voice.
Then, today I was speaking to one of my art history professors about my thoughts on Andy Warhol. I saw his exhibition at the Grand Palais (which I loved and will write more on later). Then we got to talking about the Robert Barry exhibition at Yvon Lamert here in Paris; and the long and short of it is that she thinks I need to be writing- that I have a future as a critic.
How about that? An art critic. I hadn't thought of that before. But, I kind of like the ring of it. So, I am going to start working on a writing a book with Corinne. That has been in the making since we were 17, and it's time. But, also, I am going to start thinking seriously about publishing art theory, too. What the hell, right?
Why Stop Now?
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I think you need a professional critic as an editor. It just so happens that I just so happen to know a great one.
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P.S. Don't kiss that filthy blarney pebble in the land of Ire.