I drew this teacup every day for a year, a high school year, 180 days to be exact (this amount surprises me too), and drawing this cup everyday quickly became a habit for me, a routine, and sometimes I liked drawing this cup, and sometimes it bored me, and sometimes I felt I got better (at drawing the teacup and at being bored) and sometimes I learned things about drawing and sometimes I learned things about the teacup, and sometimes I learned things about drawing the teacup, but mostly I drew this teacup over and over again because that was the plan, and that was what I was supposed to do.
I drew this teacup every day for a year and now (at least) I can say that I can draw this particular tea cup better than anyone (if I am feeling competitive) or that I know this tea cup as no one else has ever known this tea cup before (or probably ever will) and that there is something to this, something profound, but I am not entirely sure what that is.
I drew this teacup every day for a year, and I think maybe this work is about the condition of my labour, the condition in which I draw (or do anything at all really), like maybe I draw better when it rains, or in February, or while watching Die Hard, or if I ate eggs that day, and maybe, if you look closely, you can figure out the ideal conditions for the making of a good drawing, but I’m not sure if that’s true and what if it was true anyways, what does that prove, and how does that help anyone, unless you want to learn how to draw this particular teacup, in these particular conditions, and you happen to be me.
I drew this teacup everyday for a year, and it sometimes felt like penance, like punishment, like in the olden days where students would write on the chalkboard “I will not misbehave in class” over and over again, and here I am doing this on purpose.
I drew this teacup every day for a year, but they are not just drawings, there is writing here, writing is part of the drawings and maybe there is something here about how and when drawing ends and writing begins, or about how drawing is writing too, and maybe how creating these drawings influenced my mood and temperament, which further effected my writing, which then effected the next drawing, and so on down the line.
I drew this teacup every day for a year, and maybe you can say this work acts as a calendar or a diary (little, gridded segments of my day), or maybe you could say the real diary, what really happened this year in my life (beyond me compulsively drawing this teacup), is in the spaces in-between these drawings, like maybe the story of my year somehow lives between these drawings and in these drawings at the same time.
I drew this teacup every day for a year, and there is something funny about this work, right? I mean there is a kind of absurdity to it, a comedic element, this stupid repetition, and you have to think “why would anyone do this, just what are they trying to prove here?” and maybe deep down I kind of knew it would appear ridiculous and stupid even before I started drawing, but for some reason I did it anyways.
I drew this teacup every day for a year, and it felt like I was rehearsing for something, but I could never figure out why, maybe a rehearsal for the next drawing, or a promise of something else altogether.