Yesterday I spent a long time in the basement trying to make headway on what will soon become my new studio space. Beth, the woman that once lived here, was a fiber artist-- and so the bones of a studio are all in place. All I need to do is just get all of my crap out of the way, then drive back up to Bemidji one last time to finish packing up my studio at the Arts Center. Without my paints, I feel a little bit like a mother without her child.
Art making awaits.
Lately I've been thinking about this book, Painting as a Language, by Robertson and McDaniel. It's an old textbook that I have from Intermediate Painting with Carol that is loaded with excellent painting and journal exercises. I've never made full use of the potential of this book but, these days, I'm looking forward to the possibilities. School will be starting in a couple weeks and there is something strangely liberating about the notion that, for the first academic school year in a very long time, I will actually have free time--to write, to paint, to read whatever I want. I've noticed that I've been writing about liberation a lot lately.
I still don't want to pack up my studio up north. Even so, I can't help but anticipate what will emerge from this place. I'm looking forward to our lives settling in a bit more--so that I might find out. My hands are starting to itch for my paint brushes and bare canvas.
These boxes be damned.