today in conversation, i was explaining why i started the one-a-day up again. i compared it to exercise. i found that when i worked out my "artist muscles" regularly by painting every day, it was easy. i had a flow, and found that i worked faster and better than ever. ideas kept coming, like the siphoning of a hose. but as soon as i stopped, i stopped. i took a long break, a six month break. i hardly picked up a paintbrush, nor did i have any desire to. trying to start again was nearly impossible, excruciating, painful, like the first day of athletic training after a long summer off. i looked at other people's art longingly. i was out of shape. i had disappeared. where had i gone?
needless to say, it feels good to be back in the saddle again. the work is different, new. it references all sorts of disparate influences throughout my life. i feel more freedom to change from day to day. i'm not so terrified by a blank canvas. i don't need to paint it exactly how my eyes see it. and more than ever, i see my mom coming through, clear as a bell, in the nuances i've developed, the tricks i learned as a little girl watching over her shoulder, as she carved in ivory or washed in watercolor. no mom, i haven't forgotten. i'm just beginning to realize, to see her influences carved into me, in the same way the ocean carves the sandstone rock walls: slowly, yet determinedly, dramatically, over time.