Thursday, April 22, 2010
Back In The World
As the end of my first week out of hospital draws near, I am still somewhat dizzied by how much I've gotten done. I have a room I like in a hotel at the heart of one of my favorite inner-city neighbourhoods. I have a new studio and a clear plan for the work I'll undertake in it over the next several months. I have begun to reconnect with my collectors.Failure still haunts the edges of my subconscious but I'm no longer worried about the future. I have just enough money for my immediate needs. And I'm allowing myself the time and solitude to rediscover the untrammeled joy of exploring new directions for my art. I read. I sketch. I scribble notes to myself on scraps of paper. (I slide them edgeways into the frame around a mirror in my bedroom and glance at them whenever I get stuck for an idea. Often they're nothing more than a shopping list or a title of a book I want. "Record Tilda Swinton's Derek tonight," one reminds me, although my room has neither a digital recorder nor cable TV.)At night I sleep lightly. I'm tired – two hours every evening at the gym ensure it – but I'm excited, too. I listen to voices echoing from the street below and the soft thump and moans of a couple fucking in the bed on the other side of the wall behind my bedhead. Flashes of red, blue, orange and white reflect from storefront neon signs to form kaleidoscopic patterns on the ceiling. Disjointed images of art I've imagined but have yet to make unspool, like frames of 35mm celluloid film, in the middle of my head.I'm impatient for another day to begin.