Not to be dramatic, but it makes so much sense that yesterday was the Ides of March. It was truly a terrible, horrible no good kind of day, the result of which made me realize how physically demanding it is to be an artist.
|Andy Warhol's Silver Factory, East 47th Street in New York City, 1964|
Let's just say that I am starting to warm to the idea of the artist factory, complete with its team of assistants to bring my work to fruition.
It does bring up the old question though: Does the Art lie in the concept behind a work, or is in inextricably tied to the process of bringing it into existence?