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James Bradshaw lives in North Georgia with his family, where he writes songs, tends the yard, and raises children. After a long stint of being unsettled he arrived home in the southern Appalachian mountains to do his life’s work. A natural-born dissenter, he focuses on housekeeping with his wife and toils daily, chained to his desk, sweating out melody and story.
”Who made artists believe that art can be practiced only ‘successfully’? Who made them believe that for a record* to reach its goal and its listeners*, the ‘taste-makers’ are absolutely necessary? How could they have allowed the critics to have so much power? And who made them believe that they are truly artists? Artists have come to believe that they, too, just like other people, need money and fame, money and fame for everyday life, moreover for being able to lead a lifestyle; and that these two repugnant things are seen as necessary for everything is not only tragic but ridiculous as well. What kind of artist or writer lives like that? Who is going to believe even a single line written? What kind of esteem can the art of our age garner for itself after even one such bout of deal-making? No, the artist’s needs are few: let there be something for him to eat and a place to live, and then every day he should circumambulate the city and country, like mendicants of old. Nothing whatever can be more important for him than his own personal dignity, and this is exactly what he loses forever after the very first deal-making transaction. And so what do I recommend? The taste of failure in place of success, poverty instead of wealth, anonymity in place of renown. For now, utter concealment as opposed to publicity, perfect camouflage to the point of invisibility, because what the artist who lives in personal freedom and independence finds himself confronting today is unbelievably strong, and seems invincible…above all else, an artist must be cautious. Like a ninja.” - Laszlo Krasznahorkai