Distance is key.
Moving away from intense emotional involvement with a piece of work, focusing elsewhere, will often reveal unexpected omissions and surprises both good and bad.
This is a process I like to be in control of, so when I feel myself being torn away by random circumstance, I cling on desperately until I am forced to admit the untimely break.
I make, I write, I draw to feel sane, to feel alive and in communion with something other and far greater than me.
There are always gut-churning moments when I doubt what I do. And there are moments when I need the work to talk back at me, to claim some kind of independence.
Choosing my moments to back off, to put work on hold, to see-saw between the apparent contrasts of words and visual images, I still have a tendency to not really let go.
To not actually allow stuff to hibernate in my subconscious where it can reap the benefits of all kinds of hidden connections. I know this, I know that I am impatient and that for me the process takes much more time than I imagine.
I make much of use of my subconscious with each start, but then reach a point where I cannot carry the work lightly.
I get so absorbed in the close-up, the zoomed-in pan where the background is merely a blur and of course, the continuity.
And still it comes as a surprise to discover that there is only ever one work. That any kind of distancing, willing or unwilling, is mere punctuation in a conversation that documents and illustrates my efforts to make sense of why I exist as a sentient being.
How could I have journeyed so far and discovered so little?
I am the artwork I create.
Letting go, allowing my inner child the freedom to explode, needs so much practice.
These introspective interludes;
these opportunities to tick
box items in my kitbag,
provisions for adventures;
signs of promise, of awareness,
of knowing that leaving base-camp
might require tent-pegs maybe,
or a chunky knitted jumper;
but above all, confidence and curiosity.