The weather is changing prematurely from a colorful promise of autumn to a miserable wet, windy, overcast winter. It's been this way all week, getting colder with each passing day, and more forecasted. Aside from hating winter anyway, I'm frightened that there is a return of the situation of last year that socked me in to a coma in front of the fireplace. I just need to keep working.
Additionally, I have stacked a few pieces of emotional furniture in my mental space that may make this winter somewhat different: I'm going to the gallery twice a month, I've met some other artists who react the way I do to the doldrums, and we've promised to be a support for each other, I'm getting to WeightWatchers every week, and I have the spectre of my show in just seven months spurring me on.
I do wonder if I should be trying to make paintings in the first place. What inner voice is it that whispers in our ears that we must be doing this, as both an identity and a life's mission. Maybe it came from some peculiar flight of imagination as children and we've become so used to it that we think it relates a Real part of us. On the other hand, I've denied it for years on end and it didn't go away, just hid in a corner. One of those "Damned if you do, damned if you don't" deals. An artist friend of mine says, "It just isn't easy being an artist."
We need a Godess of Artists to whom we might offer prayers and gifts (bribes) with the plea that we might stay on the ball and enjoy a happy life.
More to come!
PW
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