The studio, the computer, the telephone and the file cabinet.

I spent most of January divided between the studio, the computer and the telephone or file cabinet. And yoga. A whole month of consecutive yoga. Yes!

The Computer:

A couple of applications and way too much writing and thinking.

I finished a short essay entitled, On being critical in the 21st century, with the caveat that I am a painter. It was for an online arts journal specifically interested in how we define critical. The essay was under 1000 words and I left out a lot of tangential meanderings that otherwise might have found their way into the more casual conversation of this blog. My definition of critical in the context of that essay was based on a system of viewing work and having conversations about the work in galleries and other spaces, either in the established system, or out of the established system. I don't think it's possible in the 21st century to make art outside of some system. Even if you're exhibiting in a parking space or a closet, it’s relevant for discussion. Otherwise,what would happen to all the blurbs and press links living in my inbox? They would be nomads, wandering cyberspace without a home.

The Studio:

Pools, Flowers, mostly flowers last month. At first the flowers were alive, but now they're dead. At first the paintings were pretty and kind of representational, now they are gunky and abstract.

The Telephone and the File Cabinet:

After 23 years on the lam, I'm moving back to Nashville at the end of the school semester to take care of my mom. There. I've said it out loud. It seems to be the easiest solution, given all the elements that play into this decision. Part of me is thinking maybe it's temporary until I need another solution, but if it's not, that's okay too. I've spent the last 2 weeks making phone calls at 6:45 BC (Before Coffee) to another time zone in order to establish a home heath care service in the interim. (Fingers crossed.)

(2.3.10. addendum: home health care was a total wash. They saw tire tracks in the driveway from the mail truck and deduced my mom was not home bound. Then my mom told them she drove the dog around the block every day and she didn't want or need anyone to help her. There you have it. The art of beautiful logic.)