Cows. I used to drive by them every day in Idaho and aside from their poop smeared backsides, I always found them oddly beautiful. Same goes for old buildings on the verge of collapse, not because of their decay but the stories they embody. They all had something to say, and if I stood and listened long enough I could almost hear them.
I’ve always had a lot to say, but as a young girl fascinated by life, I didn’t really feel like anyone was listening. I had to find my audience in unfamiliar places. I was bold, loud, and assertive. I measured my level of satisfaction and happiness on a moment-by-moment basis and I based much of it on my level of success or failure. I believed that I had to make a splash in order to ride the wave. That method served me well enough I guess, but any sense of subtlty escaped me.
Maturity’s been an interesting exercise. I’ve been cultivating a quiet side, and I like it. It doesn’t bode well for lots of blog posts or changing the world, but it’s changing mine. It’s that subtlety I’ve never known; a prolonged sense of contentment and a gratefulness for life as I know it. It takes away some pressure too. If I’m quiet, and no one is watching, I can do what I please. The rent is paid. There is food on the table. I have a beautiful little family, and we have healthcare. Now, I just want to make art. I don’t want to shout about it, I just want to make it, understand it, and grow as a painter. I want to attempt, in a quiet way, to translate some of the silent beauty that I see in this world. Subtly.
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