"Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism,
while messes are the artist’s true friend."
A few happy messes, from my sketchbooks:
"The world is blue at its edges and in its depths. This blue is the light that got lost... the blue end of the spectrum does not travel the whole distance from the sun to us. It disperses among the molecules of the air, it scatters in water... the blue at the farthest reaches of the places where you see for miles, the blue of distance.
This light that does not touch us, does not travel the whole distance, the light that gets lost, gives us the beauty of the world, so much of which is in the color blue....blue at the far edge of what can be seen, that color of horizons... of anything far away. The color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not. And the color of where you can never go. For the blue is not in the place those miles away at the horizon, but in the atmospheric distance between you and the mountains.
look across the distance without wanting to close it up...own your longing in the same way that you own the beauty of that blue that can never be possessed... For something of this longing will, like the blue of distance, only be relocated, not assuaged, by acquisition and arrival, just as the mountains cease to be blue when you arrive among them and the blue instead tints the next beyond...Something is always far away. "
|the north wind|
|the east wind, shopping for shoes.|