The day I stopped working… buried by moving layers. My work was self-reflective. It drained me in a good way, but then six years working with people who needed my help took over my emotional supply. It wasn’t about me anymore. This ultimately is a good thing that I cherish to this day. But at the time I told myself, a “real artist” would not have gotten so immersed in the lives of others. Life should only be about getting ahead.
Later I meet my husband, a love that smothered the sad longing in all my best works. It now feels like I am making new ideas from the dead skin of others. A process that is a thick dry rope and hopeless to climb.
Little Monique 