Dear Franky,
I have spent the last forty-eight hours dissecting my biological failure. I refused to leave my loft until I understood exactly why my hand shook when holding that solvent over Henri Delacourt's coffee.
I initially blamed my own lack of courage, but that is a highly inaccurate assessment. I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of vulnerability.
When I watched my aunt—a woman of immense skill and patience—reduced to tears by a loud, tasteless, talentless man in a cheap suit, I realised a fundamental truth about the art world. And, by extension, the world at large.
The creator, the artist, is always a slave to the audience.
Artists, no matter how talented, strip themselves bare. They pour their souls onto a canvas or into a sculpture, and then they stand back, trembling, begging for validation from critics, buyers, and gallery owners. They are subservient. They exist in a constant state of vulnerability. This is the very reason why I stopped producing art. However, by creating those pieces in the basement, I didn't place myself in that same subservient position for once. I didn't wait for, nor seek, validation. I created because I needed to tame my inner turmoil. Indeed, it doesn't matter to me if these pieces will ever actually be exhibited. The museum wasn't my ultimate goal. If somehow my most recent art ends up in a gallery as a side effect, I would be happy. Or better, indifferent.
After ages, I felt the adrenaline spike of getting one creative idea after another, and in the crazy euphoria of the moment, it's natural that one harbours grand visions of becoming a world-famous artist. I still haven't learnt, even after those three years of Fine Arts academia drama, that the only individuals who end up in museums are the ones with connections, inflated bank accounts, and catchy, sellable, meaningless pieces. But honestly, once someone reprograms your brain, it's almost impossible to stop thinking that way.
I don't want to put myself—or risk putting myself—in that subservient position. I want to keep producing my art, with the only condition being that it is my personal art. I won't tolerate anyone infiltrating the process or forcing it just for their personal revenue. My work is worthy simply because I say so; it is a sort of therapy, a primal need for me, sitting right at the base of Maslow's pyramid. That's why I won't prostitute my art for a living. That is, actually, the death of art itself.
Why should I let a parasite like Delacourt decide what is valuable?
It hit me with the clarity of a freshly cut diamond. The true power in an exhibition doesn't lie with the person who holds the paintbrush. It lies with the person who holds the floor plan.
The curator.
The artist merely proposes, but the curator disposes. The curator is the ultimate filter. They decide what is elevated to the status of a masterpiece and what is relegated to the dark, forgotten archives of a basement. They control the narrative, the lighting, the space, and the silence around the artwork. They dictate where the public's eyes should fall, what they should ignore, and what lesson is to be learned.
The curator plays God, a Big Brother in disguise.
I don't want to be just 'the freaky artist' anymore, Franky. I don't want to get my hands uselessly dirty with paint or risk being judged and misinterpreted by lesser minds. I want to be the one who curates the gallery of society. I want to be the one who decides which humans are allowed to remain on display, and which ones are simply "unnecessary noise" that must be removed for the sake of aesthetic purity.
To do this properly, to avoid the messy panic of my last attempt, I need absolute authority. I need an untouchable facade.
So, this morning, I made a decision. I submitted my portfolio and applications to a private and highly exclusive post-graduate program in Curatorial Studies here in New York. With my academic background from Italy and my parents' generous financial—and social—backing, my acceptance was essentially a formality. I received the confirmation email three hours ago.
I start next month.
I am not just going there to study art history or learn how to hang paintings on a white wall. I am going there to study the elite. I need to understand the ecosystem of these wealthy, arrogant parasites so I can learn how to cull their ranks without anyone noticing. I need to find a cleaner, quieter method of removal. Something that leaves no mess, no convulsions, and no shattered coffee cups.
I need to learn how to poison the ecosystem from the top down.
I feel calm again, Franky. The trembling is gone. The vision is clear.
I will be the Curator. And my first exhibition will be flawless.
Bye, my paper friend,
Vera