it is not ever my job, nor yours, to make work that’s easily or quickly understood, that makes sense to, say, a critic or a market, or feels like “art.” that fits some curatorial theme or falls neatly into a sensible narrative or timeline or someone else’s notion of “good” or “good taste.” it is not my job to be “an artist.” it is definitely not my job to make work — to make play, i’d rather say — that is “commercially viable,” that meets a gallery’s “approval,” that’s conventionally photogenic or looks good on paper in a proposal or appeals to a grant committee or impresses an award jury or follows the rules. none of this is my job or even a job. whatever it is i’m doing, that we are doing, is a calling, an obsession, a curiosity, an intuition, a vision, a vulnerability, a confession. a way of breathing and metabolizing and dreaming and existing. of course it’s not going to “fit in.” there’s nothing, yet, for it to fit into…