One thing leads to another. This is the way art happens in my world. I’ve been unconsciously making piles of tea bags and spoons on counters for years. Sometimes I hang and dry the tea bags. A couple months ago, I paused to examine my thoughts while I was throwing another bag on the heap. I noticed “reusing” was my intention. I pulled apart the layers of the pile, noticing the wonderfully stained papers, and in those stains, wonderful characters.
A few days later, I opened a neighborhood library door and found a bright orange book, “Spanish in Record Time.” Inside was French, not Spanish, instruction. There were letters and notes in all sorts of languages dating back to the 50s - as if it had been sent back and forth between friends and, as it appeared, enemies. My face lit up in a massive grin.
Back at my studio, black ink practically leapt onto the pages of Spanish in Record time and, with it, tea stain characters. There have been many days during this strange time that I either don’t have words or I needed to process words. This journal has become both my punching bag and my welcome mat.
Often, when I paint or draw, I simply follow my breath. Other times, my hands move to music or my heart reacts to words. I welcome whatever comes up, whatever happens, without judgement of good or bad.
