Victoria Campbell

I took an exit off the museum mile and merged onto sand hill road. I dropped the american art english, stopped wearing jil saunders, said no to shows. I didn’t stop dealing, though. It wasn’t a withdrawal from the art world or even a professional pursuit, it was an attempt to isolate my computer from a confusing context so I could determine how to proceed. I learned some programming, showed up to the dev conference with bourbon and a bag of money as an allegory for trustless exchange; I made headway on the dumb goal of getting all my nudes removed from the internet. That last one feels a little silly now, with its whiff of a me-too era will to integrity, and I can only explain it in terms of discomfort with the way artists are conditioned to seek visibility not only for their work but also for their exploitation. The creative mandate is to know everyone and be known by all, and thus become one of the least creative people in the world. And the wind cries, “Subscribe”