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Pearls from artists* # 279

"Offering," soft pastel on sandpaper, 20" x 26"

“Offering,” soft pastel on sandpaper, 20″ x 26″

* an ongoing series of quotations – mostly from artists, to artists – that offers wisdom, inspiration, and advice for the sometimes lonely road we are on.

Why is one compelled to write?  To set oneself apart, cocooned, rapt in solitude, despite the wants of others.  Virginia Woolf had her room.  Proust his shuttered windows.  Marguerite Duras her muted house.  Dylan Thomas his modest shed.  All seeking an emptiness to imbue with words.  The words that will penetrate virgin territority, crack unclaimed combinations, articulate the infinite. The words that formed Lolita, The Lover, Our Lady of the Flowers.  

There are stacks of notebooks that speak of years of aborted efforts, deflated euphoria, a relentless pacing of the boards.  We must write, engaging in a myriad of struggles, as if breaking in a willful foal.  We must write, but not without consistent effort and a measure of sacrifice:  to channel the future, to revisit childhood, and to rein in the follies and horrors of the imagination for a pulsating race of readers. 

Patti Smith in Devotion

Comments are welcome!

Pearls from artists* # 169

Barbara's studio

Barbara’s studio

* an ongoing series of quotations – mostly from artists, to artists – that offers wisdom, inspiration, and advice for the sometimes lonely road we are on.

For many, the familiar presence of things is a comfort.  Things are valued not only because of their rarity or cost or their historical aura, but because they seem to partake in our lives; they are domesticated, part of our routine and so of us.  Their long association with us seems to make them custodians of our memories; so that sometimes, as in Proust, things reveal us to ourselves in profound and unexpected ways.

The Tears of Things:  Melancholy and Physical Objects by Peter Schwenger

Comments are welcome!