That's what the fortune cookie says. In NYC (1980's) I lived around the corner from a fortune cookie factory/sweat shop on Center St. Hot fans blew the sweet smoke out of the open doors. The machines clattered. Workers, probably indentured slaves, silently placed paper fortunes on disks of hot cookie dough before they were mechanically folded. I wonder how they dealt with that anger.
This blog traces my influences, studio practice, learning, and teaching of art.