I haven't been painting all that much lately. The current series still lies in piles around the studio and covers the walls with their coordinated creative touch. I love to sit and gaze at them, each one unique and sparking a memory of its creation; yet all similar in their transcendent flow of purpose. I admire them, taking them off the wall, running fingertips over the smooth rich surface, turning them over in my hand to see the layers of process evident from the sides.
I'll get over the initial whole hearted love of them: This first-alive obsession of having been the conduit for their existence. At some point I will see my way to scrawl my signature, adhere instructions for care and enter them into the world to receive criticism and critique-acceptance or rejection-without taking this worlds' judgement as my own or making it personal.
Yet for a little while still, I get to indulge in them as all my own: Connected to me for just awhile more.
One by one I must release them; a show here, a sale there; an intrigued buyer-a supportive gallery director-will take them and lead them into a new place in their existence. These new owners, gallery directors, will grow their strength beyond what I have instilled and take them to places I am unable.
At which point a new series will call to me. Beckon me to the wax and yearn to be born from my brush and board. Beeswax will melt and torch will flame to be used for a new conductive creation. A space will clear in my heart and hand to grow a new painting and share with the world this next blessing. in love. trish.