Art making is strange experience, but not as sexy as it is perceived to be. Recently I was talking with another artist about the embarrassment of having work purchased and receiving over the top blush worthy praise. “It’s not that I think it’s bad or something, it just…I made that in my PJ’s while sick on a bus.”
I spend hours by myself drawing (in my bedroom), wandering, reading, and then worrying if any of it matters to anyone in the world, at all. By that point of ridiculous worry I realize the laundry has been sitting in the washer for an hour or two, and so I go and hang it up.
Ursula Le Guin’s anecdote about housework is comforting:
“An artist can go off into the private world they create, and maybe not be so good at finding the way out again.” Le Guin commented on how housework buoys her through her creative process in a New Yorker 2016 interview, adding that, “This could be one reason I’ve always been grateful for having a family and doing housework, and the stupid ordinary stuff that has to be done that you cannot let go.”
That aside, a few notes from my notebook:
07/08/18 -Be more careful -6AM wake-up -SLOW DOWN
08/06/18 -Pink in-between shapes -Finished the feeling of melting in summer, Thunder-Orange-Thing.