With the ninja-like approach of winter, my sudden discomfort with being alone has transformed into a craving for solitude. Not the kind you get locking yourself in a room, but the kind you take with you into the mountains with a good book or a new set of watercolors. There is something alchemical about the twilight hour between fall and winter. leaves may be dying, but I feel more alive. Maybe it's the shock of the cold- like jumping into a freezing pool.
Life has been very real this Autumn, and imbuing my "paper bags" painting with loaded metaphor left me feeling strangely raw. As this semester draws to a hasty and whirlwind close, as I dust off the dead leaves of bittersweet fall (and as I wax relentlessly poetic), I feel increased need for objectivity and detachment. Maybe not so much detachment as his much more optimistic cousin, non-attachment. (Much less bitter, and with Buddhist sensibilities!)
My intellect is exhausted, my emotions are expended, and the conceptual artist in me may in fact need to hibernate for the wintertime. And I intend to let her sleep.
No more emoting, no more searching for truths and hidden meanings. When something wants to be found, it will present itself. No more self inquisition and pseudo-psychic intuiting. At least not 'till January. Haha.
For now: thinking not feeling, observing not analyzing, representing not imagining.
I don't need my unrelenting thoughts telling me to infuse every creative expression with spiritual meanings, references, simile, or my innermost (yet universal) desires. Blah blah blah. I don't even want to feel the need to provoke insight with the obscure a la Hugo Ball.
I just want to see something, break it down into colors and shapes, and make something that resembles that something. For the first time in a long time, I just want to paint, draw, write about, admire objects strictly for their formal elements. It's like a meditation.
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