there are lost parts of ourselves, that are not really lost– just waiting for us to return to them somehow. I have always been an artist. Sometimes I make art, other times I collect images, experiences, sensory deliciousness, discomfort, witness, and hold it, store it, like medicine in a bag.
There is a rhythm to this– this forgetting and remembering, this creating and collecting… but it gets out of whack so easily.
Pragmatic panic erases all I know to be true, and it takes time, and sometimes a circuitous route to find myself again, here, by the keyboard. Or there, by the canvas. Or in the woods. Or walking under a sky filled with layers of clouds.
I am in a period of creation right now– things coming through almost faster than i can take them down, let them out, let them through… paintings are piling up, leaning against walls, each other….layers are being put down, put down and etched, with scrapers and fingers… I am feeling my way. This is so kinetic, so intuitive, so not-me-in-the-way. And I am overflowing and filling canvas after canvas after canvas…