Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Then there were my emotions on paper.

I have not been to the studio in what is easily a month.

This is problematic as I probably need to go more then I realized. I need the escape. I need the release.

I've been writing, and writing, and writing, drowning and chocking on words on screen and that don't stop, that keep demanding that keep wanting more and more and more and more and still I'm not done with the writing. I developed a severe case of writers block. I could not find words. I could not find anything. And the writing was not even the healthy expansive escapist writing, words turned to pictures, illuminating the doldrums of my dull life. This was work writing, and it robs something from you after a time.

I walked home last night and thought I would not go to the studio, I don't have time, I thought. I don't want to. I need to work out.

So I worked out.

It was 7:00. I was sitting in my apartment. Sweat poring down my chest and off my brow and I'm sitting in my bed thinking, okay what now.

T.V.?

"Sara, get your ass in the studio, now!"

I don't know who was yelling at me. A voice that is ethereal and real, and old friend, a warm hand, power and control and direction, and I thought, yes, yes to the studio with me.

I said goodbye and went to the studio.

It was musty and hot in the studio. The boys have been working on the back and filled it with sawdust and construction, but I don't mind. It smells familiar in it's mustiness and feels like home.

I fill buckets of water and look at one unfinished painting and blank canvas. I take a drink. I look.

I pull on my loose fitting over-sized artist blouse flecked with paint and brain spatter, or maybe thought spatter a garish mess of colors. I look at the canvases and think, what now.

But I know what now. It's been an emotional couple of months for me. I know what now. I turn on the music it takes a bit for me to find just the right mix, but I do find it and while music pulses in my brain, in English, in Spanish, in French, and German, and Techno, I fill brushes and start to fill in the canvases with my pain.

After a time I pause to wipe away sweat, clean brushes, rinse water, wash away pain, colors pouring down the drain and unfinished art hanging all around me and flecks of paint in my hair and new flecks on my blouse and I don't mind, and I don't care. I am at the happy center of my own universe, surrounded by pain decorated in
colors I have chosen, dressed up pain, presentable pain, pain that is outside my hanging on walls on hooks I fixed in the walls, pain that is escaping and gone and gone and gone.

I pause, I drink, I smoke, I think, I watch, I look at my art.

It's not finished.

Not yet.

Time is passing.

And I don't care.

I pour out more color onto ancient pallets and pick up brushes I have owned for years and I pour more and more and more onto my canvases, the paper picks it up and soaks it and I continue to work into it, thrust into it, brush, stroke, flick, rub, pull and push and toy until I feel that thing I am waiting for that push that tells me it is no longer just close to being but is.

And I find that too.

I'm tired today, I still have paint in my hair. But somehow I am cleaner and more whole.





2 comments:

Ipsofacto said...

This post would explain why your template is so unique. Nice.

Johnny Ong said...

i presumed u need lots of inspiration to come up with such a painting