Being overwhelmed trying to think bigger, I go back to thinking smaller. I keep coming back to my flimsy journal. The delicateness of the paper is beginning to interest me. The way it crinkles with the glue. The way it is too thin to hold paint. I like the tactile-ness of leafing through the brittle pages. I pulled some teabags and onion and garlic skins out of the trash and began gluing them down. There’s tiny marks and lines and scars in all these things naturally. Like maps. Instead of being a painter, I’m learning how to make marks, and observe the beautiful things just in the trash! What a welcome change.
I can’t separate my writing from my drawing. They always belong together.
