The wounds are violent.
I read. Tears.
I am shaken – the wounds are now interfering with perception and a tremendous, beautiful, precision. A genuine love of making.
The most basic tool of the artist – that is why the mind is sacred.
Over and over and over, i keep coming back to stories of the hands of Victor Jara.
I then recall a brief conversation about limited time in the studio that is so precious and loved and where this artist should and wants to be. The force that comes from the space and that conversation.
What propels all of that? The place of the violent wounds.
The wood panels on which i paint and draw, not of my making, i have so greatly appreciated for their elegance, care and commitment to the practice of making, understanding a material and an artist. Understanding presentation. Understanding it all.
Genuine, like breathing.
Taking them home, into the studio, i look hard at them always – they are small sculptures.
So many have no idea the work that they have witnessed in galleries and museums, in numerous quiet forms has been stopped. Abruptly. Sharply.
The body’s capacity to heal itself is tremendous. This i rely upon.
The maker and their object is inseparable.
The ongoing debate over the fact that an artist is not their work – which i have never believed anyway – seems to be quite clearly resolved now, in this moment, for this time.
An artist’s life is incredibly precarious for many reasons. So few are this superior at what they do.
So much of life challenges the practice.
In my studio are five panels newly crafted days before their maker is stopped in their tracks.
The work of an artist, who is quietly committed to perfection and the unspoken physical laws of making, is always sacred. This is because where something beautiful exists now, it did not before.
The body’s capacity to heal itself is tremendous. On this i will rely.