On the other hand, perhaps they are looking for the neurotic, self-destructive, political, demented, sick, abused, or abusive. I suspect that that is what they want; if so, then the capriciousness of the art world alone is threatening to send me down the artist's traditional slippery slope of despair. If I photograph my suicide for posterity, I might make it as an artist, but it would be too late for me to benefit from the publicity.

I remember seeing an exhibition in a gallery in a fashionable section of New York by an artist who decided to document what must have been the longest poop in history -- who knows what she had to eat to get her body to produce a product of that length and duration. This memorable work spanned at least 10 large beautifully framed photographs covering a pristine white wall at least 25 feet in length, and was said to take a full week to accomplish.

Each photograph showed the same scene: the nude woman crouched on the floor of what looked like the same gallery space with a long tail of it behind her on the floor — was it the same floor I was walking on? Where is the hygiene in art these days? My mother said that my brother, as a tiny baby, seemed proud of his poops too, but I don't think that she documented them for posterity.

So, let's see if I can think up something demented and twisted enough to get their attention next time. Van Gogh set us a dangerous precedent: his work was never accepted during his lifetime AND he was the first artist to go mad. I'm sure that is one of the reasons he is so loved by the public and the artworld: he was the progenitor of the mad, unbalanced artist that so populates "high art" today.

Or was it Gauguin who went mad first? Gauguin might have a chance to be popular today, not because of his work but because his madness came from an advanced case of syphilis.

Of course, to be accepted Gauguin would have to come up with a way to paint with the bacteria of his disease, and Van Gogh would have to go one further and paint a few paintings with his poor severed ear as an impromptu brush. In order to have style recognition he'd have to continue to sacrifice a few more body parts to the capricious art god, until he was duly accepted. Hopefully he could survive long enough with enough essential body parts to make it in the artworld.

Artists today are all supposed to be unbalanced, obsessive, compulsive, and sick. Or they are Sunday painters painting "nice" pretty landscapes to match someone's couch somewhere. Even at that level, most people willingly pay $5000 for a couch, but couldn't imagine parting with$500 for an original painting, even if it is so bland that it merges with the room decor.

I blame the critics and the galleries for this problem. People have given up trying to understand what art is, so they don't buy any. It's like not understanding what is the reason behind stock valuations. They don't want to be wrong, so they don't even bother to learn: besides, no one trusts authorities who sing the praises of the obviously sick and demented. The rest of us are supposed to work without recognition and live on air. Where is Theo when you need him?

— September 3, 2007 Aliyah Marr