Apologies for the late entry, I spent the day with my parents, making our secret honey and lazing in the sun (Dad said I must be part cat). I finished watching Eat, Pray, Love. It just made me want to learn Italian and move to Italy. Then I watched Midnight in Paris, and I want to take a detour on the Iceland trip to spend a week in Paris, but first, must practice the French.
The movie brought me back to the obsession with the culture and people in Paris of the 1920s. Thus I find myself back at the library, with another stack of books in front of me. I really must do better with this stack, the last stack of 5 books, I read about 3 pages from one book and then got sidetracked by life. Isn't that always the way?
I wish I lived in a time of such volatile and free creativity, but I suppose that's what all artist yearn for, the golden years gone past. But who says we aren't in another golden age of art and the arts? Every decade has it's own Hemingways and Picassos and Monets... it just seems as though we are stuck in an age of boredom, distracted by all the political and social upheaval of the time, blinded to our own spark of genius by the past masters.
I have so many creative outlets I want to explore, painting, drawing, knitting, stained glass, carving, hide tanning and leather work, writing, print making, photography... it seems like an overwhelming mountain of opportunities and unborn masterpieces. I feel caught in a web of too many directions to explore. Perhaps if I dedicated one month at a time to each sphere of practice, I wouldn't feel torn. Each would have their own set time for exploration and enjoyment, my studio could be set up for one medium in particular and not a clusterfuck of creative supplies. I like this idea...
Now, I'm off to savour delicious food and drink at my favorite bar, and bury my head in one of these gilded accounts of the days gone past...
A bientot,
A
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