Surviving

I've had quite a few folks comment about my ability to paint these last few months. Comments about how world events have them worried, anxious, sad and angry. 

As if I'm not feeling any of these same emotions. 

Most days, in the small space that I inhabit, I wake up, check the news of the morning, email and messages. I wonder if I should go back to bed. After bargaining with myself, I go from my bed to my kitchen where I make a cup of tea and think about what needs to be done for the day. Then I go back to my bed (which also serves as a couch) and grab whatever book I've been reading. 

I've been trying to learn from the artists who've gone before me. How did they get through pandemics, world wars, desperate times and horrible leaders? What did they do to survive? How were they still able to paint, to love, to exist?

They did their work.

They loved.

They existed. 

So, with that tucked under my bathrobe belt, I go to my easel. 

I put my earphones in and I listen to artists talk or talks about artists. I rarely listen to music while I paint as I don't want the lyrics to influence me (or get stuck in my head.) I'll allow other painters' voices in, for some reason. (Perhaps it's because I've grown to think of them as working companions.)

I'll pick up my brush or painting knife and start adding a color. From there, I settle on a palette and start covering the page, doing the work, trying to survive the day.

 "It is thanks to my evening reading alone that I am still more or less sane." -W.G. Sebald