Rub my eyes. A concert of bird sounds pours in through the open window.
The world is holding its breath this morning.
With a sigh, I get up. The sun stings my eyes. My irradiated little garden has lived through the night. Open the garden doors. Summer gently strokes in past me as she briefly taps my shoulders.
The world exhales. Timidly she gets moving.
Breakfast, coffee etc…. Flip open my sketchbook. The creative friction of the previous day seems gone. To my ears sounds Doris Day “Dream a little dream.” With the sketchbook on the table, I make a few more sketches. Noise from street traffic swells.
In my studio, I lay the sketches scattered on the floor. Let my gaze slide over them. Abstractions begin to manifest more and more in my creations. This creates a curious sense of friction with the creations of a decade or so ago. I let that flow continue unhindered. It gives me a sense of peace.
I lean against time, which takes me to other images in my perception. The friction thereby stills the turmoil in my mind. My easel stands like a timeless skeleton in my studio. Pick up the drawings. Prick paper on a solid surface put that on my easel. Copy a chosen sketch.
Past my atelier window a bird flies by seemingly frictionlessly.
