voice

The rain came down on the tin roof of the studio last night and there was jazz, mournful and ethereal, filling the space.  I had deemed a painting lost just before the New Year, but decided to go back into it and keep in it.  It is slow going but it it coming.  It feels like sculpting stone, as I've had to chip here and there and wait and look and try to see.

A cigar and a nice Roija and contemplation as the paint dried.  I looked over some of the newer studies; I looked around the studio and I felt a sense of singularity -a sense of voice.  There are those who say that there is nothing new.  I say that when one is open and honest and seeks out their voice, that expression is unique in the universe.  It has never been and it will never be again.  I've no concern for novelty for its own sake.  I try to stay open and to paint through.

I've been in this studio for 5 years this month.  It is a second home, a respite to a working father and husband and gentleman.  It is my Byronic island where I detach myself from the world.  There will be construction this month, a new wall on the south side.  The space will change, but I am changing and my work is changing and evolution is fitting and natural to the sustained purpose of things.