Sitting waiting in my studio. Wait for summer to be over. Wait until people are calm. Wait until the wars are over. As I wait, I stare at a virgin canvas. Stare, until my eyes begin to irritate me. Wait for the days to pass. Wait and hope for better times. Someone once said, “Hope dies last.” I want to keep my hope. I am still staring. The canvas begins to shine before my eyes.
Turn my head away. Stare out through the window of my studio. The summer clouds are high in the sky. Spotless white. Strongly outlined against the blinding blue sky.
Man must wait all her life. Waiting for the things that will never happen. While you wait, unexpected things happen that you don’t actually wait for. Keep staring at the clouds and the blue sky.
In my little apartment, restlessness creeps around. She strokes my hair. As I sit and stare, she whispers in my ear. I refuse to listen, while I sit waiting, full of hope. Sometimes hope grabs at my throat. Tries to tear me loose. Hope keeps forcing itself on me. Hope for what?
Walk somewhat dazedly to the kitchen. Mindlessly make coffee. Still try to embrace hope again. Even the art world, embedded in our culture, is beginning to lose hope. I try to deny its surrounding breakdown.
Burn my mouth on the hot coffee. Grumbling, I return to my studio. The afternoon is about to begin. Sighing, make a few…
