hoard your heart away

“Wouldn’t it be funny if we all achieved enlightenment and then the world ended?”

Apparently, 2011 was rough for a lot of people and now those same people are cartwheeling into 2012. We all look shinier, which might just mean we need a shower, but the shower will be a triumphant shower. With hot water and bergamont grapefruit scented soap filling our nostrils. With a sigh and cool, overcast winter light shining in on our fresh faces. This kind of optimism requires no smiles or cake or cards. Just… a shower.

(What I’m trying to say is that I’m still a bit dirty.)

I’ve been preparing to move some of my art materials into my soon-to-be new studio, where I will mostly paint and work on moderately large projects. Since I’ve been thus forced to acknowledge the boat load of crap that I own, I’ve also been purging a bit of it and devising a plan that if I don’t start using it all within 6 months, it’s gone.

On many occasions, my hoarding of papers and other materials saved me from having to buy those materials for a project; however, at this point my possessions feel more oppressive to me than time or money saving. They are an ugly reminder of all the time that I have wasted, opportunities missed, ideas forgotten, creative (redemptive) impotence. Instead of seeing the potential that I originally saw in them, I see myself failing. Constantly.

(See what I mean.)

I am giving myself the chance to use those items — at least to a degree that indicates productivity, instead of weirdo hoarder — and then if I don’t, I’m letting them go. Because I need to. I don’t even know how to sew and I have three large plastic bins of “scrap” fabric. Yes, three. That’s just one example.

(Yep, you see it.)

I will probably never stop squirreling away some materials because they are legitimately useful to me. There are other reasons, too, but I feel like that’s a given. Some stuff you can’t ever wash off.

Celestial return

Paint like this reminds me of images that I used to see of galaxies, celestial bodies unnamed in my mind. They have names. Everything has at least one name. My mind just didn’t know them, similarly to how it can’t match a Honda Accord with a Honda Accord. The car was dirty silver, like an old coin found in the street. The tree had leaves like pointy elongated tears. The  fabric feels like a spider web looks. 

No one seems to have much use for knowing the names of ghosts. Or whatever they are. Ghost is a name, too. We all know that name, like names of God, only more people snicker about Ghosts.

My throat is sore, my head hurts, and my nose feels like someone has been scraping the inside of it with a serrated knife. I need to get to work, but I wanted to take a moment to think about something else, and it ended up being this picture. Then it ended up being names. I still have to title my work.

Back to it, then.