Wet Canvas Dreams: Where should an Artist Reside?

Where should an Artist Reside?

She sat on the island with her legs folded in front of her. A traffic island in the very center of a suburban nothingness. Cars, a bus, some pedestrians, and more cars. all commuters. Hundreds of them. She was alone on her island. Except for the pigeons. Dozens of them. In her lap was bread. She fed them all equally. Picked out whose turn it was to be fed. Perched on her legs. Her arms. Watching her from the bus made me feel crap. So I got off and walked.
More of a march really. A magpie flew low and slow past me. It showed off its blue and green shiny plumage. Rested on a fence by a Cherry Blossom tree. Made me think the magpie was a guest in a Bonnard painting. I wonder if the bird thought the same of me?

Not My Kind Of Town

Yesterday I walked to the city. One and a half hours. So bloody boring. Probably won't do it again unless they build a new city. Again.

Map of the Human Heart

I think I've finished my map of the MidWest. A road map. Painted from memories of journeys and feelings. No GPS assistance for me. That would be a different kind of map, a scientific mapping of a short-term experience. My map is an expression of a long-term emotional existence. I surprised myself at first. It was what I wanted and going where I wanted it to go. I lost it later though. Shame, 'cause I was damn close. Tried to rescue it but went over the top. Anyway now I know what I want I can try again.

The Need for Wood

Went to the Home Improvements Store at lunch time yesterday. I wanted to look at wood. I didn't want any. It was just the looking at that I wanted. I went and I saw. Different wood. I was happy.

Drawing Conclusions

Walking yesterday I crossed the road and then looked both ways to check that I hadn't been in any danger. Oh the accuracy of hindsight. Small lilac flowers growing out of a stone suburban wall. This side of the road was in shade and anyway the man doing his gardening was too near. I put my sketchpad away.