I mourn the loss of the printed word.

There are no bookstores here in town. None. Okay, there's one, "Books a Million" or something, and they don't carry art magazines. There are a few used bookstores, but unless I buy an iPad or do something radical like subscribe, there's a good chance I'll go through the rest of my life never seeing another art magazine unless I plan a vacation around visiting a city with a bookstore.

I live in the capital of Tennessee. One bookstore. I could cook organic meals, parent toddlers and get the latest on Southern fashion and guns, but it's been a year and I'm worried I'll never read an intelligent article about art in print again. When I called to see if Books A Million carried Flash Art, they asked if it was a comic book. I weep. Gently, I weep.

Today I worked on the computer doing stuff I dread doing, but do anyway since it gives me a sense of purpose now that I can't thumb through picture magazines. Plus occasionally I think about a jailbreak. It's been awhile since I've actively pursued a gallery and I'm also looking for grants.

Yesterday was a studio day. I went to the train car studio, worked listlessly on four paintings in the sweltering heat, and discovered 4 jars of capped and sealed acrylics had not survived the summer.  They were the consistency of dried mud. I systematically went through the rest of the jars and discovered they had thickened but were usable. A few showed signs of pigment separating from binder. I stirred those, and think they'll be okay. Last summer the acrylics were stored in the home studio, aka the garage, Still not climate controlled, but not a metal boxcar either. I moved them to a dark corner.

I discovered Henry O. Tanner's online exhibit at the Smithsonian the other day. He's a mystical painter. 

  

And this is a fingerprint of mine I found on a painting after shooting my work. It's not that obvious in real life. I only noticed it when adjusting the contrast and looking at it blown way up. 

The nature thing still freaks me out with amazement. He/she was outside my bedroom room window.

And a catalog arrived in the mail. 2008 seems so long ago.