Friday I felt bad for the marks I made on paper. Paint pigment and ink on paper -- compelling as always, grabbing my attention, as always, sent it to nothing. In the midst of frustration and bewildered sadness I said aloud "I feel bad for these marks, they want to be good art". I declared myself a misguided fan of art supplies. Necessary process failure felt like the kind of failure that is exchangeable with all other failure on Friday.