This is simply how I feel when I am not painting. A stormy sea, a ship on the horizon that appears to be afloat, but for how much longer?
I feel the same. Not being in a gallery, not getting attention, not drawing a handful of collectors, journalists, curators is beginning to weigh heavily on me. It takes me longer to jump from bed, but once up, I am fast at work, buoyed by my visitations, visions, muses, and love of the physical act of painting, the full ritual: putting on an old blue robe, preparing a fresh pot of tea, turning on the radio, filling a cup with water for my paintings, rolling out my tray of paints, squeezing paint from tubes, applying that first stroke onto the board – I am off in a blustery breeze, rain or shine, on deck to face the oncoming squalls and storms into the unknown, excited, enthralling, exhausting – my right arm sometimes aches – but ultimately fulfilling.
Now I do sail. A sailor at port is pleased, satisfied to stretch his legs, talk to people ashore, have a shot of rum or two, but it won’t be long, he will begin to be assailed by a malaise; the only cure, to board ship, and sail off again into territories, new and unexplored, or old and familiar; so, too, I with some recent work.
Notwithstanding my own malaise, spleen, ennui, listlessness, deep frustration for the above mentioned reasons, to be expected, a feeling shared by many artists, writers, poets, and I happen to be all three, there is at least one other interpretation to this picture.
Look closely, and what appears to be a ship on the horizon, also looks like a turned head; from there, follow the distended body, shoulders, chest, abdomen, hips of a body washed ashore.
Wet, tried, beaten and stormbashed, but alive, blood and firewater in his gut.
Ready for a new rumbunctious adventure.