Lately I feel like I've been a greedy artist. Reluctant to let out the images in my head, reluctant to use my hands for anything except holding a book or knitting. Sometimes this happens, and it's not like artist's block— I have plenty of ideas and feel quite inspired— I just don't want to do anything about it. It's a stubbornness, a greed. I want to keep it all to myself.
So today, today is a work day. I've poured myself a delicious cup of Darjeeling tea and I've got my pen and bottle of India ink ready to go. Staring at all these inches of white paper, I am feeling a little discouraged, yet determined to get back to it. Sometimes I want a bit of instant gratification; to be done with a piece in a day or two, but that's just not possible with the kind of work I do. It often takes weeks, months— one piece even took me three years to complete. It was eight feet tall and composed of tiny words in ink.
Alright. Let's get to it.