everyone is being very existential this week – deep thoughts abound in the world of blog.
Paula of self taught artist is blogging about the very real realities of life as an artist and asking some probing questions that have her readers puzzling. Paula is my art hero, she has thrown herself with no holds barred into a creative life and writes with compelling honesty about the costs and rewards of her choices. I wish I had her courage. My favorite quote from this weeks posts over there is from the artist Paul Klee on the subject of making art – “I make art so I won’t cry”. I like this very much, I am adopting it as my mantra, since everything else about art making is so up in the air for me right now. I am just going to keep making, because the alternative is too grim to contemplate even without direction.
On a slightly less serious note Seth over at The Altered Page is starting a series of posts about art blogging. I admire Seth a great deal, he is generous and honest and his work is stunning. I am also in complete awe of the number of projects he can juggle seemingly with ease. I think he will have much useful and thought-provoking information, so I will be staying tuned. and maybe I will know the answer to why I blog at least – any answers would feel good right now
which brings me to where I find myself, rudderless and adrift, I am sure some of you have been there. and wondering why? Life in the studio is full of ideas that will require hours of execution, and I am feeling drained of energy and enthusiasm and thinking about just laying down and letting the waves wash over me.
I am thinking about installations again, and about Charlotte’s wallpaper and utopia, about how I have no idea what that would look like, and about this: written by Edith Wharton (the fulness of life)
“But I have sometimes thought that a woman’s nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawing room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting-room, where the members of the family come and go as they list; but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned; no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes.”
and thinking if she couldn’t have it all, I am delusional.
OK going back to the studio to execute a tedious repetitive idea and ask myself why? I know one day far from now it will be gloriously finished but who will care but me and is that enough? today I just don’t know.