My life—our lives—are all rhythm and chaos. We dream them to be peace and reliability, but we drink and we dance in the fire of our hearts and have to acknowledge that none of us know what the hell we’re doing.
We imagine our lives are like Yo-Yo Ma: centered, focused and ultimately about harmony and control. But reality, we’re Brittany-dancing-with-knives.
I mean, what the actual heck is going on in that video? Who cares, it’s fascinating and I want to see more. Just like my life. I have neither the time nor the inclination to develop my Yo-Yo Ma-ness. But I got two butcher knives and a bikini.
Go get my camera.
In the journal page I included below, at the bottom is a drawing of the illustrious John Domont. John is an artist who moved to Dust Meridian from Indiana some time ago.
He is an interesting guy. Kooky in that glorious I’m-an-artist sort of way. Typically cliche with his eastern mysticism and yoga/meditation mat and chanting-monk sounds as soon as you step into his studio.
In spite of his very clear credentials, the art-uminati in Dust Meridian don’t get him. Which, for the first time in my life I think I understand that the creative community here has long been the girl version of the good-old-boys club. If you don’t fit the paradigm, you get a nod and a smile and then ignored.
John gloriously just doesn’t give a flying flip.
As a human being who has some kind of unofficial diagnosis that everyone must love me, it is exciting to know that you can be a good person and not always accepted.
This is probably the way you find your tribe. When you tell everyone your favorite color is blue, other people who like blue are drawn to that. As opposed to just stating, I love all colors. That’s nice and all, but you aren’t going to connect with anyone.
I love doing portraits in ink. they are a thrill to tackle—demanding a likeness without the ability to edit. This is the definition of aliveness. You get one shot, give it your best. Art Imbued with the cosmic energy in each of us.
And—being ready to be wrong. Pen and ink portraits always end up snatching some tiny glimpse of the subject, even if they ultimately don’t work.
Usually they do—for me if no one else.
It is like an electric charge to the soul. Then I hate it, and myself for being such a failure. Then, the next day, I’m suddenly smitten with what an absolute genius I am.
That’s what I’m trying to do with these portraits—state my blue, risk being wrong, and see who shows up.
