The Epidemy of Life, Poems by Damon Freed

The poems in this book came at a time at Hunter College, City University of New York wherein I felt a certain isolation and depression from having lost my girlfriend to her moving home. My studio was in my apartment in Bushwick, Brooklyn. The students and some instructors were jealous of me. One was my drawing instructor and she constantly battled my way of artmaking. Others cried under her neglect. I was informed of this after she was fairly warned by the interim Chair of the Art Department who spoke out against her at that time. Yet, many thoughts came clear to me within my work at the time, as I was able to reflect from within the confines of my home studio. I have named this book, "The Epidemy of Life," upon this publication for the times we are in physically given the aftermath from COVID-19 and for the times I was in while attending Hunter College, City University of New York. An epidemic is a major crisis, hence the use of my word, "Epidemy" to signify yet I soften it. I have also likened my title, "Epidemy," to the word epitome, meaning in my case, of the belief in myself when I wrote these poems reflecting on my schooling there during these years, 2003-2006. Then, while at school I felt much resistance to my intuitive thoughts and methods encompassed within my technique and paintings. The students were logical to an extreme then, under the guidance of Sandy Wurmfeld as Chair of the Art Department. My paintings intentionally represented unknowns and were made from mystery. I felt backed into a corner by my fellow students all forged by their instructors of whom admittedly did not understand the work I was doing, my work. I was copped a mystic. I stood up for my work though, by myself, and most of them, well, decided to stylistically copy the gallery scene at the time to make money. But my Dad was an artist and director in Sedalia, MO of which I kept silent about to students and very few could understand his hold on me to the point of my instructor Juan Sanchez uttering the phrase to me, "You must kill the Father." Of course, that is absurd in my vast opinion as I rejected his statement then and now. He was mistaken to say that. Therefore, I didn't have a choice but to fight back one painting and poem at a time against cliche modes of thinking and doing involved with very little feeling and emotional thought on the part of the students and instructors. The collected work in this book forms my first foundation of poetry from that time.