Sometimes you feel the weight of making so much art every year. It is a measuring spoon digging out your insides in small shapes. Nothing you do fills the wholes but it can't be helped because not making is a type of cancer. It rots you.
I had this part of me when I was young that forced me not to give up. I have a new thing now, so don't worry. It was an invisible hand that lifted me up ladders with paint and brushes, 20 to 30 feet sometimes to paint Bluejays and Crows. Pure and beautiful madness.
Always now walking lines and doing all that I can to show works in spaces. I kind of hate it. I have to do it, but I kind of hate it. I love the end results. To see the smiling faces of everyone when they find a painting that can join their homes. Very fitting, and then I go back to my studio and plan the next patch of paintings with my cats.
We have these silent, great adventures over canvas and papers. Oceans and oceans of papers dancing in the sleeping world. So much feeling, ending a numbness I feel so often outside of the house.
I try to take toys with me in traveling as I write my stories in my head for the next podcast and videos.
The next thing is the next thing is the next thing. Endless, and often empty in moments but hopeful.
tchau Galeras.
