November came with light snow and cold wind and some whisper of a feeling I haven't had since March: come on, it's ok, you can do this.
Comparing this fall to last fall is like standing in front of a Pollock, for me. But made backwards. Last fall (two jobs, one internship, one student leadership position, one calling at church, six classes to attend, living with friends, trying to form lasting relationships with new friends, planning the coming months with precision) was the strikes and cascades and shrapnel of color and movement; this fall (one class, one part-time job I've been particularly undutiful to, 12 graduate school applications, nothing else) is the dirty, hazy background.
I should have done so much more than I have over the past six months. Thinking about that, as much as I do, is useless. But the big picture provokes. And I wonder what happened inside, what turned off, why it's proving so hard to turn back on. Why can't I make what I made before? Why is everything so cloudy, so comparably passionless?
When you stand back from a Pollock, all you see and all you remember is the foreground. The excitement and texture of something made with action and purpose. Close up, you see through the spaces and into the smudged fog of a canvas that does hold up the paint it is known for, but is painfully less enticing.
And now I stand between the two, as if there was a hollowed-out hall under those contrasting layers of pigment, and I am ready to lift my hands to the top of the canvas and pull myself up and out. I can see into the gallery and I know there are other works to fall into and fall in love with. For the first time in months, I have the courage to leave behind what is finished and move into something new.
How absolutely good.
This was beautiful, Mad. I needed this. Thanks
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