The day I stopped working… buried by moving layers. My work was self-reflective. It drained me in a good way, but then 6 years working with people with developmental disabilities, took over my emotional supply. It wasn’t about me anymore. This ultimately was a good thing, 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.
Afterwards, I met my now husband and my thirst to be loved became attainable. A love that smothered the sad longing in all my best works.
It now feels like making new ideas from the dead skin of others. This process is a thick dry rope and painful in my hands to be climbed.