excerpt from sketchbook
I once heard that to be an artist means to be alone. On a certain level this is true. When I am creating I require isolation. I need to be alone with my thoughts. No one can help me finish a canvas, and even now as I sit in this field, there is no other human being in sight. But alone? No. I am surrounded by grassland and the soft undulation of the gentle hills. I can hear insect life humming and buzzing; birds call and I watch the hawk circle overhead, maybe wondering if I am wounded. The sky is huge and blue and the wind whips through my hair in short sudden gusts. Maybe I'll see a deer later this evening, or maybe a coyote or a fox. Tomorrow I am going to Writing-On-Stone. I will see there my connection to my ancestors. They left a message on the rocks. Was it only for themselves? For the spirits? For their own ancestors? Could it have been meant as a communication for the generations that would proceed them? I find a similarity between what was left there and what I am trying to do now: preserve what is slipping away, talk about what is happening now, leave something for the future. Admittedly, my effort is small, but I feel a kinship deeper than blood with those ancient artists. The compulsion to share a vision.
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Reading this old entry brought back memories of hot summer days and warm summer nights...
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