Schroeder Romero is terrified to present This Is A Work Of Fiction…... a solo exhibition by William Powhida, under professional obligation and personal duress. This is his first solo exhibition at Schroeder Romero.

Dear Art World,

This Is A Work Of Fiction, my one man SOLO show, opens May 11th at Schroeder Romero. Those bitches hos HOOKERS, excuse me, are ecstatic to present my new work, which is destined to confirm my GENIUS and secure my reputation as the greatest artist ever. Now, I know that sounds a little presumptuous on my part, after all I haven’t been reviewed in The Times or sold anything to Saatchi, but it is true, I promise.

BUT, all that doesn’t really matter. The work isn’t that important. I could, say, pack my shit into a can, take nude photos of my beautiful friends at parties, or make BIG EXPRESSIONISTIC paintings of monsters, but it wouldn’t really matter. WHAT matters is that someone says “Did you see that shit on 27th Street?! He called Dash a jerk-off’.” It’s REALLY important that Shamim and Roberta drop by. I mean, otherwise what’s the point? I can’t keep sitting around my studio getting drunk and yelling at my assistants forever, can I? I need some affirmation of my BRILLIANCE like a Times review or a Biennial nod. While I have probably just doomed myself to insignificance by ASKING for those things, aren’t they the very indicators of success?

I would like to ask you to participate in my impossible endeavor to scale the walls of my insignificant existence as an emerging (it’s so pathetic sounding) artist. I know that WE (Richard, you bastard) don’t make art to be rich and famous, but my hair is turning gray, I am getting OLD, and time is running out for me to experience GREATNESS. I mean, I’m not twenty-five anymore! I can feel the studio walls closing in around me, my assistants are giving me dirty looks, and collectors are trying to GUESS MY AGE!!! (I take no comfort in the fact that I too will eventually be recognized as a GENIUS. I mean we ALL will someday when we are dead)

I suppose having AMAZING art helps, which I do and people have actually collected, suckers, but money means nothing. Well, it’d be nice, but I am past such material goals. No, I want what you are (A) waiting for, (B) longing for, or© trying to buy. I want to feel necessary, IMPORTANT, like my brief existence here mattered. So, instead of waiting for Jerry to tell you how fucking great I am, I am just letting you know myself, I was a critic after all, and we know everything. Please, come out and help me destroy my career the art world with my ‘fictional’ accounts, lists, and letters. My assistants have done an excellent job of making helping make this work. I had an army of MFA’s working round the clock and I owe them a TON of money.

If you want, send an art consultant in your place, or ask the gallery to send you JPEGS. Or, just wait until the next art fair. Solo shows are like albums, books, or dinosaurs, vestigial at best, SO help me enjoy (party, fuck, pillage) the one, and I mean ONE, show I will ever have in Chelsea because no one is ever going to let me do this again. Maybe you can just come and give me a hug. I’m sorry.

-Sincerely,

William Powhida

Note: Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.