I was lying on the sofa in front of the heater tonight, while Tony watched some ancient and vaguely amusing rerun on Jones tv, interrupting him with “I could make a heart out of air dried clay, and embroider one on felt” and then “what about a heart made out of craft metal that I emboss?” and so on. This is a fairly frequent pattern to our evenings; he answers sometimes, grunts intelligently other times, and raises an eyebrow at me for the most outrageous suggestions. All’s well in my world.
Except that this is not good art practice. The artist who did an Advanced Diploma in Art and Creativity is lounging round on the sofa in the evenings, eyes closed and mumbling, instead of sitting at her desk using her art journals and recording progress on her blog. What the heck is with that?
I think it started after Mum died. I was exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally and needed to take time out. To sleep, mourn and heal. But my art is part of what heals me and I am treating it badly. Enough! Tomorrow, the art journals come off the shelf and back onto my desk.