Bronzed and freck-faced girls bowled me over at the doorstep, and home is where they are. Home and hearth; indeed a form of wealth in this oft-impoverished world. Heading back into the studio tomorrow night, renewed and strangely free; as though there is no longer pressure; as though there is only open road.
Chelsea days and nights and thankfully no dawns this time out. Minor misbehaving and nothing more. We marched across lower Manhattan and dozens of galleries, seeing the good, the bad and the inexplicable. At times one wondered why some works hung under the glow against white walls; and so many white walls there are. Mad shots and heroism of a sort. The kind men in twilight years tell tales of to the women who suffer them. The amazing work as well. The work that seeps into the soul and gives it light. More familiar faces each time I go, as I slowly begin to grasp that I, too, am becoming a familiar face to some.
Tomorrow night a cigar and the thickening night air and train whistles, and paint. Alone and peopling my solitude with memory and exploration and experience. The evening, the brick walls and wood floor and jazz floating and mingling with my smoke and my visions, twirling and winding back on itself into the rafters. I've no thought of the future, only the nowness of surface and purpose.
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