Been locked in the studio for a full six days solid on this one. Do you know in that entire time, this singular, milky, bugs-eye hasn’t turned it’s withering gaze from me once. It makes me think of the old man in Tell-Tale Heart staring accusingly from the dark like a bitter moon.
The paint has flowed appeasing the great eye none the less, like blood from a sacrificial lamb. Even the damp cold that clings into the midday from the night before doesn’t deter me, and I’m reminded how easy it is, when there is nothing else imposing itself other than the work at hand.
In a moment of epiphany last week, I typed something out on social media about so much art being manifested in silence, with the accompanying choir of a thousand voices screaming self doubt. It’s true-the visions are barely audible at times over the constant drone of rejection, failure, hardship, exclusion or…well, name your self-flagellating poison.
It made me think I’ve probably been listening to the choir for too long.
I should have squashed the voices rather like our vexing bug here.
Freedom and enlightenment comes when there is no fear of nothing left to lose, and it dawns that I flourish best from my place of exile.
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