2003

Youth looks at the ederly and wonders why they do not take better care of themselves.  I thought life would be easier by now but everything is sagging, seems to be all falling down. I cannot be ashamed of who I am even though I regret many of my actions. I am like the rest; we are all struggling every day of our lives, like insects and crawling creatures, we would like to be graceful and fly.

I know that nothing that I have is mine to keep. I am here to watch over it and appreciate all that lies within my reach. I want to walk my path but I realize I am more lost than ever before. We all want to be loved and yet we love so inadequately. We all want when giving could be so easy. Painting myself in the mirror, which is my right and which is my left side?

I went to church and was thinking about God and people. People always so dangerous. God, incomprehensible.

The strength and energy I need to paint leaves little time for other things, so much gets left undone. I saw a portrait of Rembrandt in an art book, the text said he was looking out with the same attitude, “where do I go from here?” There is no turning back. War rages on.  I need to let go of the desire to paint, of anxiety about the unfinished paintings, chores, tasks, and life…how else can it be but unfinished?

 In Andalucia, we go to bullfights, meet bullfighters and courageous matadors. Orange brown bull in hot sun.  Vicente Barrera con muleta. Litri, Jose Tomás, Picador en Bilbao and Cristina Sanchez. The cat is sitting on the floor beneath my easel with a very understanding look on his face and the woman who lives across the street is vacuuming her balcony.

 Lost again! So much space is frightening me! My work is often realist and figurative and then as my frustration with line and flat color builds up, the creative process becomes dry and almost academic. I get stuck and hold back on something essential because I do not know how to release it.

Hungry stomach. Hundreds of immigrants arrive each day. Cold hands, warm heart? Let´s go home…but where is it? The pressure is so intense; I am as untouchable as a feline. Everything spirals around my need to paint.

Painting well, and then suffering from insecurities and indecision. It is not only if I am good enough or if I have anything to say or contribute, of course I do. I wonder about my intentions and motives?

The space is there and time passes minute by slow minute. Paint through poverty. A woman and an egg. Color equals emotion, their laws are the same.

Painting going well; keep moving past fear of the unknown, keep the faith and work. Sometimes it all seems too easy and then I worry about outcomes and themes which do not interest me now, but they occasionally arrive in obsessive fashion at my door. Nevermore, said the Raven.