Our Art Can Tell Us

I’m sitting here again in my room over flowing with paintings that have originated from my sketchbooks,which originated from my thoughts and emotions and fears and frustrations. All originates from the deepest parts of us.

I draw obsessively, its the way I cope. It’s also the way i record images that a camera does not interrupt, at least to that extent.

Images come to me and I don’t think about them I just get them down or get them out! They run around in my body like a crazy person. Drawing or writing poetry  seems to be some of the ways they will be released. Sometimes its my self portrait photography.

Now that I don’t have a gallery to show at I feel a sense of freedom to not hold back. I wake in the mornings with this unquenchable thirst to paints some more!

I should be doing my taxes!

I should be packing!

I should be working on waxes!

I should be finishing my bronzes!

I should be walking to get ride of this fat I have taken on!

But I don’t do any of these things do I. Am I hiding? I know I’m still depressed just by the fact that I would rather stay in this room and watch reruns and paint. I have piles of clothing that should be washed. I go to valueland and don’t buy anything or, I buy books that I don’t read. I do see my books as works of art. they should be regarded as such for the written words can be works of art.

It’s past noon and I have not eaten yet. The sun is shining and that annoys me. I work better when it rains. The rain gives me energy and inspiration. It seems to heal me for the time being.



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