My last post was the day I left home to begin full time employment. The day I left my child in the care of a stranger (who, as it turns out, is pretty dang awesome). The day I relinquished the glories and terrors of working from home.
Months have passed. Where am I now?
This afternoon I met a friend for lunch and we exchanged valuable information. He gave me a painting and I gave him money, which was the pretext for our meeting that was in and of itself a valuable commodity.
We ate. I talked with my mouth full of french fries and he spoke in between scissor grabs of noodles and vegetables. Every five minutes or so I delicately turned my head to the side to be sure the carefully-wrapped painting was still at my side. Paranoia, I suppose. An unnecessary fixation.
The name of the painting is "Man with Fascination."
Our conversation drifts from discussions of family and work to artistic practice, yoga, and the effectiveness of Groupon. I tear into limp french fries and share my ever-blossoming frustration with my own creative practice. Note: fixation, fascination, frustration. It is a tired and worn out angle, but I retreat back to it every time. The fear of making something that will not inspire. Seeing the work of others and feeling inadequate.
The painting is a profile of a man from the neck up. What we see is one ear, carefully cropped brown hair, the collar of a red shirt, and a chin and forehead that seem to stretch beyond the canvas towards infinity. When I saw it there was instant recognition. Fixation, fascination. The frustration seems to come later.