I'm not certain why. It doesn't seem to pull at me, the camera, so I don't pick it up, and the days go by and of course now that I'm thinking about this I wonder: am I reminding myself to charge the battery and light some candles tonight in the shed and take some pictures after I maybe paint a bit more on the walls.
I'm making slow but steady progress, though of course the work would go along faster if I had a plan and didn't just paint ecstatically, without stopping, and without intention other than dipping the brush and seeing what happens when I push the brush this way or that way, or mix this with that, or scrub with the brush almost dry, or scrape with the edge of the metal part, and uncover something, and cover it again, and of course as I'm writing this there's the part of me that sits back and says oh yes, obsession, a classic case, but don't we all have our crosses to bear, I suppose we do, and apparently this sort of pre-occupation is mine, and some days what a delight that burden is to carry, or to set aside for a moment or two, and choose to pick up again, and see in an unfamiliar and clarifying light. 
Monday, September 7, 2009
I haven't been taking many pictures lately.
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3 comments:
I'll bet even though you're not making pictures with your camera, you still see your world in snapshots of beauty.
Well of course wouldn't you know, Pauline, that talking about not taking pictures preceded a burst of picture-making, and video, with a very loud but amiable scrub jay.
Today I'm having difficulty seeing beauty. I was grouchy with my family today, about the messes they make, and everything looks messy, cluttery, makeshift. I think it's because there are some things I need to do that I've been putting off, because I feel put-upon to be doing them, and it's not as if they're monumental tasks, but if I were to see myself as two people, the mother and the artist (somewhat the way it was described in the book Daybook, by Anne someone, Truitt? Pruitt? something like that anyway) then I'd have to say the artist-me is feeling tied and constricted by the obligations the mother-me has taken on. So the seeing ugliness is just my selfishness speaking, I suppose.
I don't know that I'd call it selfishness; often our self-imposed need to accomplish domestic tasks fights with our more artistic side and the result it that awful feeling of being trapped. I find that if I simply make time for a walk by myself out of doors where no matter where my eyes rest there is some sort of beauty and pattern, I feel better...
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