Laziness

I am very lazy. When I was 18, my mother did an industrial psychology course. She gave me a test to measure, among other things, my ‘ambition’. I scored 0 out of 10.

My favourite part of the day is when I wake up and doze, put off getting up for as long as possible. In the afternoons, I sit in the studio, smoke cigarettes, watch the clouds, plants, and animals, look at pictures, and think about things.

Lazy thoughts are the best. You start anywhere, with anything, and then drift, see where it takes you. All the best ideas are arrived at idly. This is like that, you think, and, oh yeah, the other thing fits in here too. Then you mix it all together, and get rid of the extraneous stuff (cos you can’t be bothered), and you’re left with this thing.

Laziness means you don’t sit in front of a blank canvas and worry about fucking it up. You do whatever, your present whim. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, so what?

I am too lazy to want to be a ‘successful’ artist. Having to worry about keeping dealers and collectors and curators happy. Having to worry about what is written about you, or, worse yet, what is not written about you. Having to worry about whether such-and-such arsehole is getting more shows and residencies and prizes than you. And so on and so on. It’s all just too much effort.

Laziness is freedom.