Without embellishing more than I am physically compelled to, I admit that I am in a “transitional period” of my creative career. More specifically, I am in the post-undergraduate phase where a lot of “stuff” seems to happen quickly and none of it involves rocketing to Kahlo/Warhol/Bronte/Beckett/Whoever/Whatever levels of fame in a matter of weeks [for grubby, unfortunate, smelly, broke, mortals like myself].
Luckily, I’m a compulsive maker. Projects aren’t so much expeditions into the realm of intellect as they are a quick-release valve for the fidget-steam slow cooking my brain. Twist the knob [AKA start a painting, write a sonnet, make neighbors miserable by trying once again to relearn that song from eighth grade marching band on whatever instrument is momentarily appealing], and boom: Life gets more liveable.
So in a transitional period, where one is frequently tired, and just wants to watch a couple of too serious yet very talented strangers skin animals and avoid freezing to death on whatever season of “Alone” is on Netflix- for hours on end- what are the fruits of creative labor?
They’re mulch. Mulch, in the sense that scraps, starts, fragments, tools, and sketches pile themselves into a scattered archaeology of many day’s mind-pacing. You can look at it as chaos. It certainly has no direction. But you can also look at it as a canyon. These layers and layers of silt will eventually build somewhere.
This is my sneaky way of announcing I’m trying to launch a not-so-secret project by November while also avoiding accountability by being vague on the details. Let’s leave it at, as of last week, I am 1/5 of the way to where I want to be by November 15. And depending on the next two weeks I’ll be making a concrete announcement by September 1.
Cheers to Mulch.
[Sidenote I am going to be participating in a workshop at Anderson Ranch Arts Center in Snowmass from July 19-13, so there is an actual, measurable, art making event breaking up my mulch-wallow. Lookout for photos on instagram and wherever]