Dec 9, 2003
My first gouache painting is drying on an easel. My second sits beside it. Also drying. Two acrylic-on-cardboard pieces are stacked against the wall. A collage dries its rippled layers in my art journal. Actual work needs my attention. And grad school applications sit in their stack -- taunting me. Time drips through this strange sieve of my personal reality. Sometimes I have to force it. Sometimes it finds its way through the spaces on its own. And sometimes, I can scarcely believe how long its been. All this time. Long stretches of it. Short bursts. Brush strokes. Even the memories seem to have lost their value. Paper currency gone through the wash in an accidental pants pocket too many times over. Frayed edges and faded colors. Breaking down into a colorless mulch. Soon it will all just float away. All the rubbishy, powdery bits. A sneeze. A bit of wind. An exhalation. And they're gone. Poof.
posted by Mary Forrest at 5:48 PM | Back to Monoblog