Felt like a corpse today- one of those plastinated exhibits by Gunther Von whatsisface-posed in permanent stance, brush aloft, eyes like razor slashes, skin like alabaster. The irony isn't lost on me of all people.
I've been buried beneath a pyre of art books, and cds,grimoires and wet palettes this past week. You could be forgiven for thinking I'm auditioning for Hoarders, but it's actually kind of like my painters alchemy, and one day I imagine they will find my paint spattered carcass crushed under the detritus of my influences.
It struck me that I hadn't left the house in five days-it did rain for two of them, and I did spend the other two obsessing over the subtle hue's of a white wall only to discover it was grey, but regardless-the studio can be my retreat and my prison.
Ventured outside and walked to the local park, and sat in the sun, straining to hear birdsong beneath the hum of jets and the traffic on the 5, and for once didn't wish I was somewhere else, though did wish I had a dog.
It was the most clarity I'd felt in days.
I think it was Monet (or was it Manet?) who once said “color is my daylong obsession, joy, and torment,” Its so easy to walk that razors edge-its not like drinking or drugging or fucking, but when it's good it's addictive all the same.