Pieces half done.

At first you’re excited, thrilled by the new piece you’re working on. Then you get bored. Then you get distracted, something more exciting comes along, or you’re busy at work (far too busy at work), perhaps mental illness snatches away any motivation to create – but then, what am I creating? What is the point of this? I’m using photographs here, have I created anything? Did what I see exist in any tangible way before I photographed it? Does the photo exist in the absence of a witness? As a photo referenced painting, well, not a painting – a digital painting, a painting without paint – what is it I’m doing? Why am I doing this? What is the benefit? Who is it for?

In other words – I stopped working on this piece. In memory my pieces are always half done. You build a block, you take that block and push it into the way of the act, thus making that passage – the path to creation – unapproachable. Why not try to ignore the block? Because you’ve carefully misremembered how difficult it will be once you’ve passed it, you’ve erected another block and placed that atop the previous one. It’s boring. It’s not worth the time any way. The piece will never be finished. You’re not good enough. Whatever. Before you know it, you have a tower, a tower you’ll need to climb before you can continue.

The frustrating temptation is to believe that this is it. You’re done. If you can’t finish this, you’re fucked. This is the end of you. There is nothing else you can do. You may as well give up here. Move on, dissolve, become someone else. The whole of you is tied up in this, the place you belong and without it, without completing it, you cease – that so much of you is a part of this, a part of anything, that without closure, you’re lost.

Fuck that. Work on something else, move on. Perhaps in time you’ll return. Perhaps not. There is no you. Just something temporary and disposable that you might cling to for a time, and after that time? You let go.

This time, I came back, I finished. I stand at a distance now. I probably wasted my time. I don’t like this work. Maybe you do. Maybe I might, in time, but whatever horror surrounded it’s creation, it’s transcription from vision to photograph to painting, has tainted it irreparably in my eyes. Regardless, I move on.

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