Death of the Artist

Putting a single line to paper can be an excruciating process that requires a constant confrontation of muses & demons, of desires & fears that are buried deep within the writer.

My days bleed into each other, and I find myself compulsively writing the same line again and again, retracing each letter, reciting each vowel. Before I know it, a hundred nights have passed, and the same line is still caught in the back of my throat, itching at the tips of my fingers.

I believe that at some point, the artist ceases to exist; when I write, my identity is erased. “diana” becomes irrelevant to the words on the page. What we are left with is the collaboration between the art and the audience. I dedicate this space to my own collaborations, my daily deaths and rebirths, and invite you to engage with yourself, and with art and writing in new and unexpected ways.


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