Here comes the cold weather. Like a donkey with its heels dug in, I’m saying, “Noooooo!”. But then, when it was unseasonably warm before this, it seemed odd. Not right. Disturbing.
So, I can’t have it both ways. I love the seasons. Cold? Just wear more clothes. I even bought a way-too-big coat for the pup.
And then, in my art, I do this oddly similar mind game. I see over and over again that I somehow manage to put myself into a crummy mood at the outset of a project. I’m lousy company for myself. All this kind of low negative self-talk happens inside. It’s an impediment to the process. And I believe it’s just useless history that I allow to remain active on some level.
But the fact that I know it and can see it helps. It’s like the end of autumn. I don’t look forward to the cold coming. But once it’s here: it’s exciting. I get to build a fire and get cozy. I have this seasonal experience that only winter provides: with the snow and that beauty.
And with my art, it’s a season of my interaction with what I love to do. A rite of passage, each time. “Okay, you think you know what you’re doing? Well this time, with this new idea… I dunno”.
In that dear Monet book, when the best friend didn’t like what he heard, he would use English, not French, to say a much more potent: “Just shut up!”