Still. Life. I am in the midst of examining if art really does imitate life or if we are on the treadmill of imitating life-or what we think it is supposed to be. A dab of paint to spread across a very wide canvas-a smidgen of blue with a splash of yellow and there in the splotches-a smattering of purple.Vibrant royal purple. And yes, I chose those colors on purpose to complete the landscape in my own mind.
Forever and a day since forever I can remember, there has been someone-anyone- telling me to still my mind- just for once. To take a yoga class, sit in meditation, or perhaps take a long walk in the woods in the still of the morning. Feeble attempts or advice (?) from those thinking my mind was racing too fast, perhaps. That I needed to be still.Do one thing. Be still. Too much. Spinning into-what I am not sure-but certainly not still. No sir. I find my stillness in other places-not in the center of my mind and not in the still of my life. The churning keeps me still. The spinning sets me right round. Baby, right round.
……it is the abstract of my still life that keeps me moving. Glimpses here and there of stillness-that are just enough. Images, no, not of a single pear in a weathered bowl with a cluster of grapes and a wedge of cheese-placed perfectly in the center of a table draped with a single white cloth of some kind-but my own life, still, from time to time that leave an imprint. Some vibrant and full of life-some reminders of emotional turmoil and discovery. My dark period, if you will. And here, in my own museum I can recall and comment on every still snippet of life.