Sometimes I wonder- is this all there is? Is this enough? Can it be that there could be something more? After all, how silly is it to spend one's days scraping chalk on paper, doing pictures of such prosaic subjects: flowers, birds, apples, lemons, pears, tomatoes. Nothing mysterious or very important about this endeavor. And yet, my soul is so soothed every time I pick up a pastel stick or pencil or nupastel, or brush, for that matter. Not intimidated by the blank page any more, not like writing, which seems so much more labor intensive. There is a solace in the physical motions, too. And yesterday, when I was more pissed off than I had been in many a moon, I just carved this painting out of my angst, left it all smeary and messy. It is more real and more ME than any I have done so far, because it is not at all fussy, no patient pushing the pigment into the margins and smoothing it all out. That is where it gets interesting, in the intersection of things. Well, that is where it gets interesting everywhere, right? If I never intersected with anyone, how peaceful life would be. And how dull. Nothing dull about this piece. It is screaming with me-ness. Today, another image. Can barely wait to see it happen.
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