Playtime is a joke to workaholics

Playtime is a joke to workaholics, just as work is a joke to playerholics. Choose your downfall according to your downtime. 

Personally I cannot eat and talk about work. I’m either eating — or working. The two don’t really mix at my table. I mean, I love to talk about how I see my place in art, and I love to eat, but I just cannot clinch the deal when my mouth is full. I get stressed out and nauseous. 

The problem is not entirely that art and lunch don’t mix. The biggest problem is that art and food choices don’t mix, in this town. I hate the theme park aspect of it. You’re dining either Italian or Tex Mex, or Portuguese or Indian, or Greek. It’s not real life.

The sudden change of nationality doesn’t encourage any honest discussion about art. Suddenly you’re making decisions as though your life is a chapter from National Geographic. You feel the need to change into something more Mediterranean, in order to survive the next course. 

I actually love the fact that art doesn’t go on holiday, as I’ve said before. It stays home and raids the fridge. It continually tries to make up for lost time. Art is not Nachos or burritos, or pizza or Mezze. It’s just happy to be itself. Fringe