I spent beautiful hours in my studio yesterday, productive, creative time. More importantly, it was time spent painting things I lack words for. Art is good for that.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
There are many people who think they “don’t like” (visual) art, or don’t understand it. When I hear that, I often wonder if they have ever given thought to the idea that art is quite personal. Between the work as a practical thing and the perspective on the piece that each individual brings to seeing it, the understanding exists as a thing of its own. Every piece is not for every person. Don’t like Jackson Pollock? Okay. There are many other artists. Can I interest you in Monet, Van Gogh, or Peter Max? How about Ronnie Gold or Rothko? Each artist communicating their own way, about what matters to them, and putting it out into the world where a multitude can see it. Each person with their own thoughts and perspective, and potentially taking something from any given work that even the artist did not understand from the piece. That’s how art functions as communication, but whether a particular piece leaves any one individual unmoved is…fine. Also the way art works. Some pieces are not for us.
… I paint things that “aren’t for you” all the time. Sometimes I paint things that are not for me, as well. š I often paint to express something difficult or to process emotions, as a way of getting something “off my chest”, and to say it, to transform it, or to rob it of power over me. For me art is an act of self-care.
I walk down this morning’s trail, thinking about art and eager to be back in the studio again. My Traveling Partner also knows how important time spent painting is for me and he kept nudging me gently toward the studio yesterday, helping me avoid self-care self-sabotage traps (like housekeeping tasks that can wait a day or two). This morning I feel lighter of heart and more contented. I keep walking.
A wispy autumn mist envelopes me as I near the creek. It’s cooler this morning. I’m grateful for the cozy sweater I chose this morning. Laundry is something I can do “while I paint”, but I didn’t finish the task; it is unfolded, still in the laundry basket. This sweater just happened to be on top. lol That seems very human. And isn’t that the thing about art? It is uniquely human. Human ideas, human emotions, human complexities, human stories… “Art” created by AI isn’t actually art.
I breathe the chilly morning air. It definitely smells of autumn now. Somewhere in the distance, someone has recently had their fireplace lit; I smell a faint hint of wood smoke in the air. Daybreak comes as I reach my halfway point. Chased by Venus, the crescent moon has been rising as I walk. She’s still visible, but as daylight fills the sky, the moon fades from view. I stop to write, reflect, and meditate. It’s a new day.
My thoughts are filled with paintings I’d like to paint… my studio is waiting on the other side of the work day… it’s a good time to begin again.
Evening Light 