Never have I felt connected to the title “artist” or used it as a way to describe me.
I have been known to make stuff.
I have made an series of 64 collage cards with poetry for each one, this was first begun twelve years ago (they await a complete re-design in form, size and maybe even words.) This card collection has been known as The Other Shore.
I have made mandalas, hundreds of them, with watercolor pencils and metallic gel pens. They came from meditative practices learned long ago. I don’t call the mandalas art, but rather a high form of doodling. I mostly love the process of the mandala-making with no real attachment to the result.
I have made photographs, also hundreds of them, now thirty years past. After at least seven years of being buried in boxes in a niche under my stairs, the photographs are scattered all over the table in the living room. I have awakened them to introduce the negatives to a new scanner that is supposed to bring them to life in the digital world.
Re-making, re-thinking, re-vising—a RE-DO of all of it—is in the works.
Oh, and I now make blogs. Several, in fact, for me and all the spokes in the wheel of my life.
I am consulting with other artists to give them a jump start in the blogging world.
I am emerging as artist.
(Please, forgive this boring, mundane post. This is the way things are at the moment.)