By every measure, my dear friend David Schoffman is a failure. Though this judgement seems harsh (isn't judgement harsh by nature?), is there really much to gain by equivocation?
Prolific and even talented, Schoffman remains, in his seventh decade, as obscure as a locksmith. I wonder sometimes how he does it.
Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year he works in his studio producing one work of art after another. The sheer variety is staggering but what is truly impressive is the consistency with which each new project is greeted by the public with indifference.
A lesser failure would have quit long ago.
To list his failures would be cruel but a short inventory of some recent exercises in futility would suffice to make my point. Let's begin with his 100-panel polyptych The Body Is His Book. He worked on this piece for over fifteen years and though he has exhibited fragments of it throughout the years, the pictures are gathering dust in his dusty studio.
Or how about his podcast, Timmy Black Presents: The Lives of Contemporary Artists? After four years and 125 episodes, he's never exceeded more than a few loyal (and indulgent) listeners.
His YouTube channels are equally desolate. Hundreds of short, clever videos go unwatched and yet inexplicably, Schoffman goes on.
Even after he invented me, Currado Malaspina, his failure persisted like a bad smell. Together we created two handmade illuminated volumes of Dante's Divine Comedy and even that effort turned out to be a professional piss-in-the-wind.
His failure though is fluid. Even as a female abstract painter, Schoffman's charming and decorative abstractions (presented to the world as the work of Dahlia Danton) have fallen flat.
You'd think that he might have attracted a few conservative admirers as a landscape watercolorist, but failure adheres to Schoffman like tar.
I'm sure that Schoffman's failure is so complete, so indelible, so inscrutable, that you haven't even managed to read this to the end.
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