I like to be productive at all times, daytime or evening, weekend or on ‘office’ days, and during holidays. That is great because I get all the work done, even the work I didn’t know existed. I must be fabulous.
Yesterday I had my birthday, a perfect day with my family in a second hand shop and in a museum, with lots of presents, to run with, to smell, to wash, to read, to wear, to paint and to examine mosses. This morning while running on my brand new shoes from Japan I decided to stop taking the orphan bikes home, in order to repair them. The very very very last one will be the old Peugeot with the wobbly front wheel and hyper mobile ax. I feel lucky the bikes are not cigarettes.
Soap, black holes, food, sewing machine, water and mountains. And some nice thoughtful people. And some perfect tone of voice. Actually, I think my mother was a gangster. She had a gun in her jewelry box.
Twenty years ago I was vacuum cleaning our ‘entresol’ when the phone rang. The woman on the other end told me my mother died. I ended the conversation as quick as possible and went on vacuum cleaning. First things first I must have thought.
I would like to start very simple, clean, empty and quiet projects. They do not have to end, but I do need to dismantle my studio. This will take a very very long time.
Speaking words softly to a painting in progres, waiting for answers. And throwing myself, that is this body, against a wet painting.
I am happy with these ideas, in spite of these I can live. No need to add the drama. Stop.
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