I am desolate.
I have no reason to be desolate. I can tick all the boxes of well-being in my life: good job; lovely and loving friends; ditto my nieces and nephews. I am in good health (with a little ‘immuno-help’ to keep those lazy little red blood cells frisky and burbling). I have a nice home and much to look forward to.
And yet … without my daily art practice, I feel adrift. It’s my fault. I am not heeding Paul Klee’s maxim, ‘not a day without a line’.
It’s easy to blame my research commitments (I’ve written and co-authored seven research articles and reports in as many months; plus delivered two conference presentations and radio interviews about my research). Or I could blame my commitment to my relationships – my mother and my friends. Perhaps I could blame my fatigue.
But the truth is this. I don’t know why I’m not drawing and making marks on a page each day. All I know is that the absence of drawing lines, making pictures, bringing to life an idea onto the page leaves not just blank spaces in my journal and on my sheets of creamy paper, but a gap in my soul.