Ah, nothing delights me more than encountering someone with the audacity to declare themselves an artist. Oh, you really are an artist? You swaggered into this coffeehouse, oversized glasses perched on your nose, and head of unkempt hair that screams “I’m here to make profound statements and change nonlinear epistolary narrative non-metafiction forever!” Yet I can’t help but notice that you are able to afford that latte. That seems odd considering you claim to be an artist. Well then, list three collection agencies pursuing you for those sky-high tuition fees from the art schools you abandoned because you now believe “art can’t be taught.”
Interesting: when I challenge you to name those three debt collectors, suddenly the air shifts. Your confidence deflates like the air escaping from a thousand balloons in one of Yayoi Kusama’s installation exhibits. “Uh, well…” You stumble over names, clutching your sketchbook filled with half-finished doodles. “There’s, um, Credit Control and…uh, The CBE Group..” You’re almost there, but I can see the panic rising. “Oh! And, um, Credit Control Recovery?”
GOTCHA! I know Credit Control Recovery is fake because, let’s face it, I’m drowning in crippling debt from dropping out of twelve different schools; from universities to liberal arts colleges to art schools that ‘don’t believe in grades’. I know every debt collector out there. I once got a call from Midland Recovery Solutions and they threatened to send me to debtors’ prison. My growing list of unpaid tuition has given me a credit score of 12 and they repossessed my fixed-gear wheelie.
You’ve managed to weave a tapestry of lies to masquerade as an artist but I know the truth. And don’t get me wrong, 60% of being an artist is lying; about your past, about how far along you are on your current project, about being familiar with the works of Hernando de la Vega. Oh you know his work? Funny because I just made him up. See, lying is a part of who we are but pretending to make art without the vultures of debt collection circling above your head is unforgivable.
The irony is too delicious. I dropped out because I believe creativity is beyond the confines of formal education. Yet here you are, trapped in an existential crisis pretending to be harassed by relentless collectors, clinging to the false identity of an artist. In a way, feigning this financial persecution becomes an art form in itself—an elaborate performance is a brushstroke on the canvas of your life. Like a Marina Abramović piece, the act of pretending to be hounded by creditors is a profound commentary on the struggles of the artistic spirit. Bravo.