washed up.

 

I pretty much hate everything I have produced, by way of artful photography, in the last six months!!!

An exaggeration? Yes, somewhat. But the emotional impact is much the same. I’ve been floundering, flailing, and failing for a while now.

I’ve talked about it before. Then I stopped. I really haven't wanted to belly ache about it here, over and over. If I felt tired of writing about it, you had to be sick of hearing [seeing] it.

So, instead, I waiting. I waited, I prodded, I absorbed other’s art, their process. Nothing. I stopped thinking about art for a while and focused on other things [well that was the plan but I can’t for the life of me remember what I focused on]. Nothing. It’s driving me mad.

Last night, before what would become another sleepless night, I jokingly, sulking-ly, said to my husband “I have no art. If I have no art, I have no purpose, no soul.”

I intended to be melodramatic, hoping it would expedite the purging of the feelings of futility that were overcoming me. After the words left my mouth, I realized they were emotionally true. I do, of course, have a purpose on this earth other than making art… being a mama is only one of them.

But, art is for me. It’s all mine. It’s what centers me, what balances me. Without art I am living, but really only half alive.

So, against my better judgment, I put these feelings out into the universe, via this space, hoping that they might jar something loose…… and if nothing else, knowing that if I don’t write them here, I won’t write anything at all.