A Moment of Rest/The Fall of ’11

I’ve been keeping this blog since the beginning of 2006…for nearly 6 years now.  It started as a lark, a mere catharsis of commentary on my sheepish and (yes) pretentious musings on pop culture, as well as the all-too-common laments of a mid-20s brooder hell-bent on ignoring the rampant beauty of youth.  It developed into deeper and, at times regrettably explosive self-referential treatments on my personal life.  And over time, through the triumphant and tragic blows dealt me (and that I created for myself in many cases), it became a true art log, a means of using art and my evolving knowledge and exploration of it to work through the many issues gnawing at me just under the surface.

But art is a living, breathing thing.  It is always changing, ever-evolving and, most importantly, it needs room to grow.  It is not something solely learned between the pages at a desk, or by mimicking the tutorial of someone greater.  Oftentimes, one must put down the pencil and paintbrush; go outside and kick around the dirt, let yourself fall and learn how to get back up, allow the weather to toss you around a bit…because only then, can you return to the canvas with a true reference, a story to tell, something to paint *about*.

Sometimes I forget that.  It’s so easy to become laser focused, with the eyes faced solely on one primary abstract goal because the alternative is scary:  being human, imperfect, getting hurt…sometimes irrevocably.  Yes, it is far easier to wax theoretically of joy and pain than to let oneself take it in.  But it is a lie; it isn’t real, nor is it authentic.  It’s cowardly.

So, I’ve been gone for a time, getting myself a life so to speak; thrashing about town in my loudest, muck-raking boots and causing a stir.  I wanted to *live*, instead of painting or writing about living.  There is a difference…it is both subtle and monumental.

And now I’ve come back with all kinds of stories to tell.  And hopefully many, many more adventures to come…