fair.

When an art fair makes me doubt my being an artist, as much as I love the third day of people, I question myself: how can I call myself an artist if I don’t get these objects? How can I speak as an artist if I don’t get their language? Row after row after row after row of rows and walls. Is an artist just another label, just another price spoken softly in between the frames? How much did you say? Oh. My.