Where old brushes go to die.

...or: sorting out my life, one pile at a time.

This week I got a bug though not a virus- threadbare sables and paper piles vexed me, old paint tubes twisted of their last sputum twisted in my mind, and walls stacked with canvas closed in.
Before I go on, I realise the compulsion to declutter is kind of a life metaphor, but with my world having already regressed to a little studio corner,my ambitions have literally become too large for 20 ft².

Like I said, I can't afford to upgrade, so I've been reorganizing-dusting off-out with the old...it's odd the little artifacts (crap) an artist accumulates in reserve for the vague possibility a project might require you to ever use French curves again. My friend-Ian-recently sent me a link to a site called 'The Museum of forgotten art supplies', and I must have excavated a quarter of those tools of yesteryear in one dusty box alone.

Then, there were the sad old brushes, drooping and matted like gnarly old punk rockers, and I couldn't tell you which hogs hair or Rigger did what painting, but they have long since passed over the point were a chimp or Choe could use them.

Haven't even began to go through the book shelf yet-but there's Loomis hefty manuals from the 50's as well as the usual perennials by Berger and Hughes, and I'll likely never read any of them again, but I'm wondering if I keep them because they sit like endowments on the shelf.

When its all done, I'm going to give the place a lick of paint-hang the art..properly, might have an open day-or night and invite people over once a month, make a thing of it.

Paint myself out of my corner.