I stretched a canvas the other night, once again enjoying the handling of rabbit skin glue; the purity, the classicism. Just lost in technique and giving over to the body's memory. I flick the near-dry surface and it hums like a drum tone, I love bringing them to life from all these raw materials: wood, cotton, labor. I'm experimenting with pigment in the ground this time out, -something I have not played with before.

I work in exile, far away from friends and acquaintances in the cities. Far away from the scenes I follow online through an array of blogs, social media, phone calls and emails. The alchemist/mystic alone in a warehouse in bumfuck nowhere, activating these surfaces and exploring the depths...always alone.

A small sale, and with it a glimmer of hope and some continuance financially. The studio hangs in uncertainty as to next year. I may act, I may be acted upon, such is life. Nothing matters but the work now, there are no distractions: positive or negative. Go deeper, further. Go to the end of the world and look over and breathe in, then bring it back.

Reading Jung's writings and looking at his paintings in the Red Book, and realizing the wonder that people feel toward artists. It's easy to forget, it's just life. Jung tried to go into it and remain aware and convey the experience. It gets all hung up on the Mind, the Intellect and the other obstacles of creativity. This work is not for his colleagues, it is for us, -the artists, to explore and play with and respond to. That it should surface now, at this moment in culture and art is important.