Why I Became an Artist

In another life, I didn’t think about much death.  At least not with intention, not mindfully.  My attention was always on the periphery.  I worked worked in pure mathematical research.  The days of the week were all the same to me.  I woke early and worked into the evenings.  And late at night I went running in the muddy fields near my flat.  I bought discount whiskey from Sainsbury’s and I listened to Einsturzende Neubauten’s Kollaps on repeat, for hours and hours and hours on end.

I saw very few people at work and, outside I work, I saw nobody.  

Almost nobody.  

There was that one guy who I met in some seedy corner of the internet.  He used to take me to the one pub in our little town that he claimed was friendly, although the barman consistently mocked his accent, and the regulars muttered “faggots” under their breath every time I sidled up to the bar.  

We shared a similar academic background.  We both worked in more-or-less the same field.  He lived across the lane from me, in a dreary little flat that was the mirror image of my own dreary little flat.  He had no furniture. He didn’t have anything but a laptop, an unreasonably expensive set of ceramic knives, and an unhealthy relationship with his ex boyfriend.  He didn’t even own a bed; he slept in a corner of the room, on a pile of old blankets.  The walls were bare, except for a single mirror that reflected back the emptiness of the place.

We were never particularly close.  But I felt like our fates were tethered together in some strange way.  Like if I didn’t change something about my life I would somehow end up taking his place in that barren little flat with those ceramic knives.

This is why I became an artist.

This is why I started making art.

I composed electronic music.  I wrote an unpublishable book of erotica. I posed as a journalist and interviewed a series of very strange people who I met on the internet. 

I was finding my voice. 

I was trying to untether myself. 

I left, came back to Canada, moved into yet another dreary apartment with bare white walls and, finally, it dawned on me to start hanging art.  And when I couldn’t find exactly what I was looking for, I bought a camera and starting making my own art.  And I covered every surface I could with reminders of mortality and transience.  This was the beginning of this project, that’s been going strong now for some years now.  

I have no idea what became of that pretty boy in the empty flat.  

We never spoke again after I left England.  

But I hope that he’s happy.