Write About That, Too

Painting, like living, either takes a life of its own or stalls out, catching us staring into space wondering what's going on.

On the one hand, we continue in motion without thinking too much about what we're doing; on the other, we analyze the dickens out of every step to discover that we've analyzed the thing to death.  Artists with the most to show just keep moving and let the thing sort out itself.

These days I've not had much to show, hardly anything in fact.  So what am I doing?  Stalling?  Making false starts?  Thinking too much?

I wonder if Shakespeare were ever at a loss for words or if Chopin ever failed to find a tune or if Ansel Adams ever looked through the wrong end of his camera.

This, too, is a part of the journey.

 Enjoy your Thursday.
Dianne