It is hard for an artist to admit that she is uninspired, especially when she is also a warrior. But the truth is I don’t want to go out to the studio, and when I do, everything feels wrong. The paintings feel forced. I recognize them as sequels, as if I can only do the same thing again because I’m not inspired to do anything else. The painting table annoys me; the watercolor pallets are not level, and everything feels crowded. My back hurts from standing on the concrete, and my vision is fading. Worst of all, my mind is in the way, and not surprisingly, the work is shit.
Maybe I could find a new subject that would inspire me. Faces? Smaller work that wouldn’t make me cringe if I threw it away and only required a minimum investment?
Maybe I should experiment, just play, take the weight off with the attitude of who cares?
Yes, I could try that… But this is a foreign language to a warrior
Or I could hibernate in the sunny spot on the couch where the ghost of my cat still cuddles. I could follow the winter season and be a big, not so hairy beast curling up into myself in peaceful hibernation.
Let other people have their seasons, like Henry who is on a roll making new work. I could remember that I don’t have to just because he is. I could honor the seasonal contraction, the dimming of the light, and go on retreat.
I could give myself permission to not judge myself. To not resist the truth. To explore the depths of the cave with a good book, like Deena Metzger’s Tree. I could relax my old pattern of work work work, produce produce produce, give give give, as if doing so is the only way to prove my worth.
The truth is this warrior is tired. And sad. She knows that there are many more skirmishes, sieges, and training sessions yet to endure.