Among other things, I’m an artist. I’ve had people throughout my life ask me if I’ve sold anything when I tell them this. As if this is the only measure of being a “real” artist. It’s the same thing when I say I’m a writer. How does money legitimize my passions?
Yes, I’ve sold many art pieces and a small, written piece ended up being the intro to an ex-friend’s book. Does it matter to me? Not much. Paid or not, I must create. It’s like breathing and eating. It’s part of what keeps me alive.
I’ve been working so much lately. Massage, house sitting, going to the laundromat since my machine died.. Free time has been scarce. I’ve been slowly, but surely, creating a piece from recycled, insulation blocks and a mixture of bits and pieces I’ve been collecting like a raven with a hording problem. I’m trying to get it finished before the packing starts. I’m moving at the end of summer. It’s a slow, purge before that.
My alone time has been severely limited of late and that means art time. I have a weird, thing about being watched while working. I’ve tried, but there always seems to be some creeper who thinks it’s helpful to breath down my neck and offer unsolicited advice. No thank you.
My body is pretty good about not allowing me to abuse it. After a busy weekend of working my ass off; my body lets me know I’m not working today. I canceled a standing appointment and went about having a day of self care and art therapy. I’m feeling better already, mentally, and physically. All work and no play makes Patricia a cranky bitch.