I am nervous. Of course I am. Saturday evening I will lug a box of painted paper and a few canvases into the Pancakes & Booze Art Show. Five months ago I had never touched a brush, and now suddenly I am an “artist” in public. The absurdity of that sentence alone makes me laugh. I keep telling myself this is not a show, this is not recognition, this is not the ego’s victory lap. The committee in my head has been ruthless on the ego for years now—and rightfully so. The ego is a real dick. My job Saturday will be to mock it loudly, laugh at it, and walk past it carrying a toolbox of sigils. The box smells faintly of paint, the sleeves whisper when I shift them around. Even the weight of the box feels ridiculous—how did it come to this? Me, carrying symbols into a room of strangers.
Because that is what these paintings are: not masterpieces, not breakthroughs, but sigils, marks left in the in-between, little mirrors someone else might pick up and take home, practice, presence, play. The statement tucked into every sleeve says it plainly: The Year of Creativity is my ongoing experiment in daily making. On Substack I publish daily essays, reflections, and fragments as a living archive of practice. In the studio I paint directly in the moment. Five months ago my daughter was gifted paints. Watching her play awakened something in me, as I had never lifted a brush before. I began painting what I call Bardo Art: work made in the “in-between,” without forethought, letting the mind have free rein. At this show, the small pieces are pay-what-you-wish. If a piece finds you, I will photograph you with it for The Year of Creativity book, which will hold this year’s daily writing and paintings. I am making it for my daughter, and for myself.
So here is how it will flow on Saturday. I will lay out about fifty paper pieces in sleeves, each one signed and numbered, ready to travel into someone else’s hands. Three canvases will anchor the display, each with a small notecard beside it. Someone might hand me a dollar, or trade me a button, or offer nothing at all. If a piece finds its person, I’ll snap a photo of them holding it. That photo will become part of the book that stitches this whole absurd experiment together. I plastered QR codes everywhere—on the sleeves, on the box, on the notes—so people can find their way to the writing at The Zen Absurdist or the archive of paintings on Instagram at @AbsurdBardo.
The truth: I am nervous because I want. I want people to care, to connect, to follow the thread. Wanting feels like both the crack in the armor and the actual reason I am there at all. To be seen and not seen, to offer and release, to laugh at myself while doing it. The committee can argue all it wants. The sigils will speak louder. These are not trophies. They are not currency. They are not my identity. They are marks, sigils, pages torn from a year of practice. This isn’t a show. It is a sigil. If a piece finds you, it’s yours. Whether anyone else notices or not, my daughter already has. The ego can sulk in the corner while we drown it in syrup.