Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I've got some figuring out to do.
I am a writer. No, I am an artist. A concept artist. Or was it a printmaker? Didn't I love ink-stained hands? The impact of it all, the record of the print on my own body. My own body is the body of work? No, I paint. I love the texture when I paint. It is because I don't know how to paint. And fabric, don't even get me started on fabric. It is like paint, but fleshier, flexible; I could have a love affair with fabric. And sculpture, am I a sculptor? I swear I am not, but look at this 3 dimensional form presenting itself, I'm not going to flatten this out, am I?