Fractured – 22 X 28, acrylic and soft pastel on canvas

Every painting takes away and gives. The taking from is always my fault, and should never be blamed on the art I’m trying to make.

I curse when my finger drags through chalky black pastel, forcing me to enter the always risky land of “removing.”

Each time I find paint smeared on the handle of a brush, or on the outside of my hand, which happens every single time I paint and should therefore be expected, I act as if an evil spirit has inhabited my studio for the sole purpose of keeping me from succeeding.

In the end, magically, all this taking doesn’t matter. I look at what I have done, and smile. Look, I think, even an over-emotional high-strung eccentric can make art. And then I thank art, for not caring about my deficiencies, for ignoring my imperfections, for inviting me back to the one place I have found that welcomes anyone willing to try.