Ventriloquist

Well, like some of you have mentioned, I too have been rummaging and gathering and thinking and visualizing and trying to be brave and it all feels like bread bits tossed over my shoulder as I move through each day, a path of cardboard and scrim and graphite and bits of noticings my kids mention that hang in the air, and a poem here or there, and a morning like this morning, so early, a spill of pink humming across the sky, and here it is, late, the other side of the day, and I'm still thinking about that sky. All this, I have to believe, ends up somewhere in my pieces.

Last week’s post sparked an idea. The idea is somewhere in that pile of cardboard I sliced into different sized squares. It’s not painting. Which is odd for me. But, amidst all the daily lifeness that inspired and tired me last week, it was this beat of an idea thrumming consistently and refusing to let go, resulting in a trip to the art store for supplies, and it was finding this picture of an older painting that I’d forgotten I painted. Between the two rests the next body of work. That’s all I know, and that’s enough for now.