Almost exactly three years ago, I bought a bunch of tulips at the Winterfeldplatz market in Berlin. The tulips made art in several ways. As tulips will, they shaped and reshaped themselves over the next week. They cast intriguing shadows in my studio/kitchen. They began to die and became even more beautiful as the petals fell. I put together the photos of their living and dying:
Post-exhibition misery should be familiar to me by now but always takes me by surprise. This time was the worst yet - I put away my paints, cleared the table in the studio/living room, and sat for days reading novels and eating biscuits.
I went to Greece and swam and looked at a different landscape. I met up with artist friends and talked about future possibilities. I talked with a curator and saw things through a different lens. And I felt the energy returning.
I wrote my journal, my morning pages (as in The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron). I read about painting. And I allowed Simone de Beauvoir to prod and push me into action. (I’ll be writing more here about how I use her words to spur me into action.)
Then I do the first thing that comes to mind, without censoring. And this time with TIna Turner playing loudly too.