Sometimes the studio feels so far away. I miss long hours sitting staring at a painting and nursing caffein. It's like staring at a bomb waiting for the linseed oil soaked shrapnel to rip past your head. Being aware of the life in the room that is of the art and the creation of art. It is not entirely my own. I coexist in this space feeling the medium sealing the pores on my hands and the ache in my eyes from training them on individual brushstrokes. I'm often confused and frustrated, flipping through a card catalog and endless lexicon of encyclopedias in my brain packed full of colors, values, hues, gestures, postures, materials, mediums, brand names, inspirations, artists, advertisements, elements, people, places, memories, impressions. A pre internet network of electrical impulses that has been a part of me forever. Synapses suggesting favorites, possible favorites, dislikes and not sure what I think about those types of ideas. Welcome to the artist studio...... When I move, paint, draw everything else stops, when I am still everything else whips up and takes off. It's been a while......... welcome back.
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