It’s 4:30 am and I’m in my studio. These quiet hours before the sun raises itself over the hill outside my window are magic-filled.
I light a candle, smoke and embers, and dream of old masters layering burnt umber on linen beneath a flickering flame. I wonder, what would be on their canvas this pre-dawn morning?
I try to imagine all the kindred souls pulled from the arms of a warm lover into the darkness to create, create, create...
Why did it take me so long to get here?
I guess I used to save it up, waiting for the right time. For the thoughts worth giving voice to, the ideas worth painting. To have something worth saying while I gathered the skills to say it.
But on these mornings I’m no longer distracted by a struggle to divine something novel and new. Instead, my studio has filled with drawings and paintings that simply trace the arc of my years. They are easy and honest, replete with the lucid, precious things I have seen and felt and learned.
As the glow outside my window grows, I know this time will not be forever, so I cherish the making while I can.
Into and out of the darkness, no mornings or candles left unspent.