I thought I had it figured out, until I realized I didn’t. After falling for a few months, I now wait. Sometimes on what feels like a hammock with a salty ocean breeze. Sometimes like quicksand — suffocating.
Don’t feel bad for me, or for my work — I still love it — the plight of an artist. The work is a token to my past. A fragment of me that was created, cultivated, and let free to express itself. At that time it was in photography. Today it is in ink work, painting, and writing.
I now look at my work, saw where I was, and look ahead to where I may go — where I can go. As I wait for my departure overseas I thought of what it would be like to have a home here. A home suited to my needs, and maybe a guest or two to come visit. A home all my own — influenced by many — yet following nothing except intuition.
Now, the thing about intuition is — It takes time.
So, as I rebuild, I hope you wait — or don’t — either way I’ll be working on plowing the land, laying the walls, and hopefully give myself a studio to work in, a library to study, a gallery to show what I love — and maybe some memories.
A place to paint.
A place to write.
And a place to think.