My fish have lost their substance. Sometimes they nearly lose their very fishness. Without color, swimming in thought, not water. Without blue. Fluidity becoming line.
They became lines. Line fishes. Bendy. Aiming. Curvalinear. Unsubstanced. Black lines. Thin lines. Intentions.
Gestures of upness and downness and all aroundness.
They used to be fish, but now they are records of my handwriting.
Being an artist seems to require a certain amount of imaginative time. Translate that as meaning: lazy time. Synonyms: day dreaming, fuzzing out, wool gathering.
Sometimes one even broods. Brooding consists of “what to do, what to do.”
As for me, I have been overly busy. I’m definitely ready for laziness of a high order. Coffee, empty air in front of my ideas, not a thought in my head, kinda time. Then it shall be so much easier to work.
The modern era conspires against the artist. But we must fight back and resist. I cannot burn down the MVA, but I can postpone all of tomorrow’s bureaucratic intrusions into my life and decide to be instead.
(Wish me luck.)
Meanwhile, the lady caught brooding above was wonderfully delineated by Henri Matisse.
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