My secret hope is to edition about 20-50 and pose them in a gallery space. No doubt they would fall at a single gust of wind form the skirts of a passing patron. The site would give me a chance to realize Magdalena. There is a difference in the gravity of the subject matter. Mine a pile of play toys and her's a commentary on humanity. A little bit of a difference I am sure. I am also not playing at emulating Zuni fetishes. In my head I could not compare. Maybe it is a desperate need to play or remembering them I fed during winter's rain and chill. Please don't play it down. I do not need a pony. I need a horse.
There is only one small in the world. His brother Da Vinci will be shown at another time. I feel the need to run a teddy bear clinic sometime in my life. I really need to read The Velveteen Rabbit and memorize it. Seems only fair. Teddy Bear graveyard as well? Possibly. And a Teddy Bear Picnic once a year. Mind you, this does not mean just teddy bears, but anything from sock monkeys to potatoes as well. A degree in stuffed animal repair and counseling. I am starting my own college. That is that.
I have not picked up anything visual in three weeks. I am not in withdrawal and that makes me wonder if I am working the same set of neurons. I usually end up in tears walking away from art for over two days. The sadness then is overwhelming. I feel like I have left my work on the subway and I am too frozen in time to return to the spot I drop my notions and nerve. Words and word play then is a solution. I can not cart brushes and paint everywhere. Even hauling a sketchbook and pencils is cumbersome at times. So, a small notebook and two pens helps manage the emotions and intermittent intelligence that comments on the scene.
Editing is in order tonight. No matter the barriers I feel, they may all be illusions and burn off. Strange, I work through a sense of fear these days, when all this time I have been damned diligent to find my voice. Repetitive phrase, paced plot, epic drag, all faced with telling. Telling the scene, showing the story. I'll take my time to polish. For some reason the wind tells me writing is easy. Why aren't you done? I have no desire to explain creativity as a science. As if it would be taken more seriously. With some maybe, with others not.
The day is growing darker. I must be on with other endeavors.
Enjoy the night.
As ever, stay hungry and curious.