The more I read William Powhida’s twitter, the more I like him.

That never happens.

He has long conversations there. They are both outwardly critical and self championing, but of course that’s the point. He’s honest.

Here’s a not entirely typical example of his work (but probably just go look at his website):

His work is part criticism, part illustration, part facile sweat equity, part fan fiction–

It’s a lot of things that I love and distrust mashed together. It’s so Insidery it’s hard to take it seriously at all. But he’s dead serious. Earnest I mean.

Here’s a quip from his bio:

Currently, the artist is suffering a malaise brought on by bouts of crushing doubt about the ability of the market to cope with his rash of provocations and insinuations. When it goes south, so will he. Most likely, you’ll be able to find him somewhere in South America selling paintings of the ocean to tourists.

I’m focusing energy on gift exchange; which is not inherently positive, but is always tangled up in the creative dialogue.

So what does Powhida give? Frustration mostly. And a voice to ambivalent creators melting down against the limited pool of recognition, wealth, and respectability. Controlled by the insiders, whose major crime is somewhere between market manipulation and ego stroking. His career is devoted to deciding who is how much of what and why. Then charting that against his ego. Brutal.

Respect.