I live in constant fear that I’m going to burn down my apartment. What causes this neurosis? My stovetop. Every time I head out the door, I have to check to ensure it’s not on. Even if I haven’t cooked that day. Even though it’s electric and shuts off automatically.
The art I’m creating is total crap. It’s devoid of meaning, relevance, uniqueness, and depth. “There’s a reason the Impressionists have been dead for more than a hundred years,” a professor on my review board said.
“What exactly are you going to do with that?” A simple and harmless question, boobytrapped with judgement and expectation.