The strangest feeling. This Limbo lostness. My walls are empty.
For the past 7 moths, the walls of my studio have been filling floor to ceiling with my soul.
I come home every night and paint. Six, ten, twelve hours.
Time is meaningless when it is meaningless.
Last week, we emptied my walls to take all my work to a studio to be photographed.
Call it preoccupation, call it denial, but I had not even contemplated the fact that when I took these paintings down from my walls, they would not be coming back.
I have been living these beautiful months, in a cave of the creatures and faces of my mind.
And they were there. Every time I looked up or turned my head.
Waiting in a cacophony of anticipation for the birth of my next creation.
My new silence echoes.