Big Picture

Life is bigger than a Netflix price-hike. It is bigger, even, than the biggest argument or most long-standing grudge. Every problem comes with a choice: to care or not to care. It is a hazard to care too much, as much as it is a hazard to care too little. There is no right or wrong approach; just choice and consequence. Impressions are far from immutable: given enough time, most things are forgotten, fade into unimportance, are altered, or replaced. Evolution is inevitable for anything that is not trapped in some literal or figurative amber. The blue of a blue sky is never felt with such intensity as when change is imminent-- a move, a voyage, or on a dramatic scale, a death. Clouds are a beautiful, amazing planetary phenomena-- acres and acres of crimped and wispy shapes scattered across that incredible blue, reflected in the glass of the tallest city buildings, soaring out from between drab and dingy abandoned structures, and illuminated gold by the rising morning sun. To think of clouds and stars is a good and faithful reminder of the briefness of one's time on this planet, a reminder of the relative unimportance of most things we consider to be important. Answers, explanations, curiosities, the beautiful, the strange and the wondrous are readily discovered when the mind is fully present and ready to receive: be still, look, listen, consider the stars, and suddenly, the blue sky will leave you breathless.

A Motivation for Making Images

“For Caravaggio, making images is a way of focusing the mind. To paint something is to isolate it for the purposes of contemplation.” ~Andrew Graham-Dixon, Caravaggio: A Life Sacred & Profane

Whimsical Meandering

Carter is tiny, and bald, with the most expressive eyebrows; she must be the happiest baby in the world. Does she know this? Her and her mother's daily visit to the coffeeshop makes my day. What else makes my day? Working with G makes me realize that you can never run out of things to say about poop and farts. This is amazing.

Ballet today: Every class at Symmetry is a craft. The Lakme Flower Duet beckons me into class from the foyer. I try my best to commit each exercise to memory. It is surprisingly doable this second time. I think that I don't like to smile in ballet class. To me, ballet is a noble and stoic art form and it seems incongruous and not genuine to paste on a smile for an imagine audience. Did the Spartan soldiers smile in warfare, rigid training and weary marches?

After class, I skip out on pointe class in order to write out each exercise from memory into my sketchbook. I feel very much like a student, a very serious student. I am driven by the knowledge that nothing good lasts forever; I am in a rush to become an independent ballerina. As I write out my notes, I suddenly consider trying to become a real ballerina. Later I wonder what does this mean, to be a "real" ballerina? Is performance what separates the student from the professional? But I already perform in the streets. Perhaps I am already a ballerina, and I have made the world my stage. Ooh! An idea blooms...A long terms project...every year a new stage...this year Russia...next year...

There is hope yet for my studio.

After ballet, I stop by the bookstore on the way home and read Harold and the Purple Crayon at the low wooden table. Oh Harold! He reminds me of Carter, so bald and whimsical. He creates his own world just like I create mine.