ok go

I realized something in the middle of the night. Every journal I have kept writes with anxiety and fear of losing what is most important to me: art.

Journals I kept during school advise to keep going with great passion and work ethnic during the times of most gloom and uncertainty. It is very easy to give up and redirect oneself. however, getting back onto the main coarse would ruin the character I was building during school. I worked in the studio to start a foundation for my life. It's no wonder the blog is attractive to me... I am writing down the journey and keeping myself updated with my disposition. It is also a way for me to try and keep connected with my classmates, but most have long left. The most important advice my senior exhibition professor gave to our class regarded posting work on the internet "the chances of people finding your work on the internet are slim, but it has to be there."

I do not advertise my blog. Although it is important to me that is here. It is here when I need to reference my personal archive. It is here when I want to show someone my work. It is here to save images when I need copies. It's here so I can practice organizing my thoughts... it's here so I see how far off coarse I am or how far I've come.

My goal is to post my three paintings in a week. They will not be done.. but they will be worked and pushed farther so I can write about the direction. I want to use this blog to discuss my influences, and I also want to write an entry about Delacroix's journal and the autobiography I read on Manet.

My drive has returned and I feel incredible.

Serious, yet...

I showed my dad the large blood blister on my index finder. He studied it and said, "I guess they didn't teach you about hard work at college." I felt fat with education... I forgot that I was the first person from the Bair family to graduate from college. that everyone before me felt this blister, and knew how to lift.

I was lifting crates of milk. My mind was keen on my sketch book in my locker. i wanted to sketch the towers of lined up cartons stacked inside cardboard boxes... it reminded me of drawing class two years ago. When my professor threw down an emptybox in the center of the room. The spot lights spilled very dark to very feint shadows from the flimsy cardboard... the girl standing next to me said, "this is stupid why draw a cardboard box?"... "you're not looking," I said.

my dad sat at the other end of the cafe table. We both finished our grave yard shifts. On the opposite wall was a print of a bicycle. My dad looked at it and said, "I like that." The drawing looked flimsy to me. The frame was drawn with out a straight forward hand, the lines meandered and pulsated around the shape of a bicycle.
The waitress said,"The artist drew it with out ever setting his eyes on the page."
A contour, continous line drawing... The art of observation.

My dad said, "Molly, draw a bicycle for me." I stirred my coffee... I felt so removed from being an artist. My head focused on my making money... my heart set on becoming worth while.. My sketch book waiting inside a locker. Two unfinished canvases on display in my studio. I sleep by them, but I haven't touched either in weeks. I glance at them before closing the door.