Just got back from the Banksy exhibit/installation/extravaganza, taking place in a warehouse not 3 miles from my loft. Was going last night, but opening night seemed fraught with fuss, especially given the Brangelena attendance the night before. And I knew I'd need an artistic prod to writing today and tonight...especially since Banksy is an artist of relentlessly ironic wisdom, and I am drawing heavily upon irony as I tell the story of a woman at a crossroads. How autobiographical this book becomes remains to be seen...but I can certainly point to many dozens of ironic occurrences in my life, most of which may provide fine fodder for literary purposes. I know I've been entertained.
Banksy's work offered just the right inspiration for mine. And was a reminder to take it all much less seriously. And very seriously. And not at all.
And, if there's an elephant in the room, speak up.
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