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Last night we were sitting on our porch. Our friend we were having dinner with, who is a composer, said “Canadians don’t deserve art. I hope next week they go to turn on their radio” and he leans forward to turn the knob, “and there is silence.” That’ll learn ‘em, he gestured with his middle finger.


It is the second time this week I’ve chatted with a seasoned artist who feels tired, bitter and wanting something...recognition (or to be more specific; money) but really a sense of security as they head toward more senior years.

This morning I had the luxury of riding my bicycle along back roads of rolling hills, hay bales, thick mixed forest and not a soul around. I came home and opened the New York times online to read about the India blackout, demand far in excess of resources, and how are we going to continue to meet our own growing requirements. Then I stumbled across a series of photos documenting the lives of hermits, primarily in India or Italy. The photos were breathtaking.

And back into the studio I go, loving my solitude, feeling precarious about the future as my work changes, but also seeing this path is where I find some invisble connection to the company of other artists, people with reflective practices who don’t need to make material things--but carpenters too-- and other people who are yearning for something that is met by being alone with their thoughts, breathing.

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