So... have I mentioned that I haven't painted in a month?
Yeah, it's true. I painted like a madwoman for a couple of weeks leading up to the open studios event last month. I painted until ten minutes before I opened my door that Saturday morning, in fact. But since then I haven't so much picked up a brush. I haven't been to the studio all that much, and when I go it's to work on crafty stuff - making new journals mostly - or to look over wedding stuff.
This just happens, and I have to try real hard not to get freaked out about it. My mind is working more in words right now than in images, is all. So I'm doing more writing and less painting. It all makes sense. It's not as if I'm no longer obsessed with images, or as if I don't have things that I want to get painted. I am. I do. Like way. Like woah. Whole series of things. But it's just not where my motivation happens to be digging in her claws at the moment. (This passage begs the question, who am I trying to justify this to? Is there a single person in my life who criticizes the waxing and waning of my visual production? Well, one person: as usual, the only person harshly judging me is, of course, me.)
I've registered for a class that will last through most of July on creating artworks from photographs, so that'll draw me right back to it. It has to, or I've just wasted my money. I'm supposing that in all that frantic work to get ready for the open studio, I drained the well a little too low. Ironic then, maybe, that the pieces that I sold have all been completed for well over a year? But no, I'm not going to go and say it was pointless to pound out all that paint. I was quite glad to have a strong body of work to present, and I don't regret doing it the way that I did. I guess I've just needed a break, and other parts of my life have required tending to.
The real tragedy in all of this is that my studio plants are taking the brunt of my neglect. Pink, Pink, and the China Girl have gone through umpteen cycles of drying out to near death status, only to be flooded back to life when I finally make an appearance. I'm afraid they'll begin to think that I don't love them. I'm afraid that they think I'm a Bad Mother, though I may have crossed that threshold when I gave two of them the same name. I'm beginning to worry that the next time will be one too many, and someone will be lost. I've had these kids since January, after all, and that's an emotional investment.
It should be better now, with my new schedule, assuming that I keep it up. The scheme involves the severe laziness of waiting for the bus immediately in front of my office rather than walking to the train ten blocks away, so prospects are actually pretty good. I leave the office at 2pm, bus it down to the studio to work on whatever (I write there too), and then head home when I'm going stir-crazy at the studio to work at home until my husband-to-be comes home. A full day of work, 8:30 am to 6pm. Respectable, with a smidgen of money earned, but with half the day for me too.
Yes darlings, this could work.
I'm two days strong and counting.