l’artiste dévergondé, recherchant un rêve viennent vrai…


Friday night I made a sketch. I was just fooling around, but suddenly it came alive under my hand. I don’t function under the pretense that I have any particular artistic talent, but somehow the picture was just there.

It took some time…a few hours, anyway…but when I was finished I felt as if I was looking into the portrait of some deep magic. I’m astounded at the technical correctness (if not mastery), but more at the message that came through.

I decided to make it a real piece of artwork. I bought the canvas and the pencils, and sketched it out. But black and white just isn’t appropriate when I see it in large scale. I needed paint. So I have paint, now…

I don’t know why this is so important to me. Somehow, though, it feels as if something crucial to my being will come out in this painting.

I need an outlet for all of the feelings careening around…an outlet that will perhaps tell me how I really feel. Who knows if everything that’s so far come out is right…even the greatest exposure to the worst or least important kind of thing can take on a universe of importance.

The more I consider what I’m going to do with my life the more I wonder if what I’m going to do is the right thing. There are so many things that I want to accomplish – but am I going about things the wrong way?

I was sitting in my staff meeting talking to administrators last night and I thought, “I could do this. This could make a difference.” But ultimately…would it make me happy?

Can anything really make me happy anymore?


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