So much of my practice is throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks.
Art for me is a selfish indulgence, it's a way for me to disconnect from the noise and reconnect with myself.
I find I am often running too fast for my legs but when I make the time for my art I am deeply engrossed, almost annoyingly so.
And although I am covered in paint every other day with work, true, authentic connection to my practice is spred amongst long periods of nothingness.
I think that's the thing, the assumption is that there should be a constant work ethic to ones pratice. I find so much of my creative process is resolution of ideas mentally. Even though my body might not be physically creating, playing and finishing my mind is never not thinking about my practice.
And then when given the opportunity, or more so the whole body urge, it's an unstoppable force, to create I am prolific. Disgustingly so, it pours out of me one after the other. I work till I am exhausted and even then sometimes I don't stop. It's like breathing it has to be done, it's an extension of myself.
And then as quickly as it came, it goes. Sometimes with a whole resolved body of work and others with fragments of a story yet to be finished.
I am somewhere in the middle right now. Art, pause, art, pause. But not enough to build a full body of work, or enough of the puzzle for me to understand the intention.
That lightbulk moment comes once the full body of work is resolved, and although I made the pieces I don't not know when that will happen or what it will look like.
So right now we play.