This morning, while searching for something to patch up a newly opened hole in my memory, I came across something I wrote eight, almost nine years ago.
I hadn’t forgotten that I wrote it. But, I didn’t know it was still out there.
It may be the earliest writing of mine that still exists.
It is a younger, pre grad school me (the editorial intro was updated later) giving advice for freshly emerging artists. I had curated a few shows by then, exhibited pretty actively between undergrad and grad school, and must have seemed promising, I guess.
Reading my own, old writing gives me exactly the same discomfort as hearing my recordings of my own voice. (I’ve just barely gotten past the uneasiness of using microphones, even though I like public speaking.) Rereading this essay wasn’t so bad though.
Interestingly enough, it shows proto-forms of some of the same messed up grammer I cherish so much today. Plus, there’s only ONE word written in an improper form — a kind of mental typo I seem to be quite good at.