In her book, Doubt: A History, Jennifer Michael Hecht writes that “life is good, but in order to live well one must study one’s own psychology with patience and intensity.” I consider myself a patient man and I’ve never shied away from critically examining myself and my own inner workings …
Each work has taught me to see myself more clearly and has moved me incrementally closer to the me it believes I can become.
I only put creamer in my coffee on my days off. It is always a sweet and flavored creamer, usually French Vanilla because that’s what my son likes best. Today, however, it’s hazelnut because that’s what he picked out on our last visit to the grocery store. Though he rarely …
Knowing that I’ll get to make a piece of art after I get home work is one of only a very small number of things that helps me get through the day. When a piece comes together it brings a bit of redemption to an otherwise irredeemably shitty day. When …
When the habituated denial of belonging creeps into the creative process, the internal whirl of wonder becomes a tightening gyre.
Grief is a kind of breach within time. Loss is a metered distance in the measures of our days, marking the ending of one passage or phrase, and holding the tension in the expectant tempo of the next. Grief enforces a pause. Loss enlists a lingering. And so, we wait… …
The day you were born it’s as if a match was struck, one that would light a fire that ignites your being but also one that burns through your days. Sometimes the fires at our center smother to a lowly smolder yet, regardless of whether they burn vehemently or not, in the dawning …
Sometimes it’s hard to tell when a piece is finished. Sometimes I instinctively know when it’s done, and sometimes all I can do is trust that what I’ve done is enough. Every piece emerges from a place of uncertainty. I unlock my iPad with no broader plan than to make …
For me, life seems to exist in an elongated middle, a never-ending in-between, resting precariously between the bitter and the sweet. For almost as long as I can remember I’ve waltzed through my days with depression as my dance partner. Even in the best of times she remains, silently swaying …
No creative work can ever be exhaustive or exhausted. There is always something left unsaid.
