The floor of my studio under the big drawing is alive with byproducts of art making; of building up (china marker) and tearing down (eraser crumbs).Clutter, fragments and pieces live on the floor, on the tables, in baskets and cupboards, and my head. Everything I see here seems half-assembled, or half taken apart; half begun or half finished. Not a completed thought in the room.
Hmmmm. Maybe it's OK that nothing ever actually 'arrives' at its destination. In the end it's the pieces that stay with me. The joy, the sense of rightness is found in a small curved red line, or the shape of a white bird against a jet black field (more details of the drawing tomorrow).
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