Back here at home where I work, it’s pajama day every day. And even though my son tells me he is so tired of seeing the same maroon sweat pants every day, I can’t bring myself to slip these legs into anything else.
My studio is in the backyard, and I do have neighbors. So, although they’ve seen me in my bathrobe many times, I try to up my game and at least throw jeans on before making the twenty foot commute.
To make art lately has been a challenge. And it’s not because of the beautiful weather. It’s been porch sitting, white-wine sipping, tank-top wearing beautiful for March. … It’s because of my other business. My graphic design business is booming – which is wonderful – but it keeps me from making regular art.
Somehow, someway, to keep those juices flowing. Otherwise – you know the alternative –it’s tough to return to art from a long dry spell. I hate doing that cause then you have to make a bunch of crap before you get into the swing of things again. Nothing worse than making crap. But no one tells you that’s part of the process anyway. It’s not at all glamorous being an artist.
Oh, there are moments. Black dress-wearing, art-opening, big sales moments. But those are few and far between. You choose to be an artist not for those moments, or else you will run quickly away with your tail between your legs not able to face your shadows. You get into this business if you like war. Crawling on your elbows through the dirt, bleeding ugly paint colors, making crap. Because it’s all worth those few glorious moments when you finish a painting that’s truly flipping amazing. We do it for the truly flipping amazing photo-finishes.
So I run out to my studio, every so often and do something. Anything to keep the art coming. And look, somehow I’ve squeeked out a couple of pieces I’ve posted here. Fruits, pears, orchids, Mexican pottery, all the warmest-weathery things I can paint. And look, I’ve coaxed the sun out in doing so.
The beautiful red rock country. We’ll pitch a tent and leave it all behind. And only go to bed with the stars and the crackle of the fire and too many marshmallows. And only wake up with coffee in a camp chair and the morning sun, cutting the cold darkness of the high-desert night. Brushing off the chill until our moaning bodies wake. And the heat builds, and pushes us out of camp, into the canyons to bike or walk or climb. This is how we celebrate our time to the fullest. This is how we know that being here is worth a rat’s ass.