Yikes. Thirty five, six actually thirty seven days since the first Tuesday in September and nine since the first one in October. I’m behind. It’s been an odd bunch of weeks that focused my attentions elsewhere, yet still on my list and underlined . . . It Happens Every Tuesday, (Monthly). Only this time it’s a bit off pace and with a selection of images attempting to capture the passing of those days.
To the folks who inquired about the missing posts of It Happens Every Tuesday . . . my sincere thanks for your continued interest in the work!
Summer meanders on, requiring a change in routine. Swimming and dominos. Honed through exploration and practice, an interlude of tranquility.
At least the swimming part is . . . We play an especially spirited version of the double six, blocking game and we keep score. The snapping sound of smartly laid dominos is punctuated by chides and retorts, illuminating the game’s progress . . . until . . . with a theatrical flourish and accompanied by a well-articulated curse . . . the last domino is triumphantly put to board. The score cards are kept as witness against future delusions of grandeur as well as proof of supremacy.
Diversions? A morning hike. Northeast and southwest views. Table, chair and pillow, a detail of back porch happenstance.
In the studio . . . beginning a revisionist history guided by new moods and selective memory.
Obsessions still. From the eighties, scores from a different type of game.
I knew this was coming, it always does. Not like clockwork but looming on the horizon, inevitable and taking its own sweet time. It’s just past the point where every stroke of the brush and every line drawn, when set to canvas lays in the perfect place. Like magic. Then bang. Push and shove, scrape and dither but to no avail. I’ve been here before. Many times. I don’t exactly welcome these episodes but I’ve learned they are telling me . . . take a different tack . . . and I listen.
Out and back. I like to leave the driving to others, and when I can get someone else to do the deed, I’m all over it. It’s the view out the window that holds my interest, clicking away with my little Cannon PAS, capturing fragments of an instantly past tense. Tops are images going, bottoms are images of returning. A different tact.
And then finally, for this missive, the new canvas in progress . . . taking it’s own sweet time.