Well, I'm back, and apologize for letting my poor blog languish so pitifully. You see, like Elmer Fudd used to say, I've been sick. Shanghai-ed into a four day hospital admission by well-meaning ER docs and a negligent office staff -- don't ask -- I've been out of the hospital for a week, and freedom never felt so good.
Though the combined effects of costochondritis and mesenteric adenitis -- and the short-lived amusement of wondering which came first, and how in the heck I managed to catch either one -- are indeed inconvenient, I am now in that happy state of grace between being well enough to venture into the studio, but obviously far too ill to undertake any housework beyond, say, lobbing wads of wet laundry from the washer into the dryer. Small wads. My poor husband was really a saint through this whole scary episode, and I intend to make this all up to him somehow, and soon. But today, I was determined to finish this piece I started before the wheels came off my personal health bus.
"Finished" is a very powerful word to me, because it's one I don't get to use very often. Merely completing a task I start is remarkable enough, since I have been starting several new projects a day for decades, but to say a piece of art is finished is to imply that it has a certain, well, gestalty
completeness to it, and though I know it when I see it, I don't see all that much of it. That's what happens to art history majors who cross over to the dark side of making their own art. Spend your whole life looking at the good stuff, and your own efforts, no matter how sincere, are bound to fall short of the mark. Way short, in my case. So a project like this, which straddles the fence between art and craft, is where I feel most comfortable, like the little pearl egg in the nest. It is awfully good to be home.
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