It has been a slow start to opening up about my life as an artist through this medium of a blog so demanding and isolating, or vague, of a theme such as art when I would rather apply visions of process and beauty and material and play and processing entirely. Truth is — and I doubt this would surprise anyone, near or close — despite endless action and intention sowing, my life does not always feel like it is moving towards the ideal, as we may witness in the movies or on social media. More on this later.
For the last three weeks, I have been dreaming about work, and jobs, and money. The kind of work that I was raised to care about (for 'the man'). The kind of work that as an adult tends to feel forced, unnatural, being a gentle, feminine, and sensitive yet hard working body. I'll admit that in recent months this definition of work provides offerings (contrast as clarity) that serve comforting minutes of rant and rave with fellows suffering through similarly, dismal or daft. I learn the world over in one interaction within this sense of friction. More on this later also.
When people ask me what I do for a living, sometimes I forget to say "I own a business" and when the time is made, I remember: I have been selling my artwork for six years, for as long as I have been making. By now, a conversation would hiccup in a breath if it were to be, as it truly is, the first thing I say of what I do for a living. Like breathing, it is innate. It is survival. The making and the exchange.