Not doing art. And watching the dust collect on fallow tubes, and stuff accumulate in space sacred to painting, drawing, and all that great art that i thought i was going to explode with, to reach the height i thought i would get to. But, really, I know I am not that dedicated, and get distracted, and suddenly I am reading poetry, or trying to write it, or playing music, or building, and the great vitality of painting drifts sideways, leaves. If you are a painter, you participate in something that is as ancient as the caves of Altimira, and from those caves, there is no evidence of anything but painting, and cooking, and some of that cooking might have been cannibalistic (or is that another cave?). In any regards, its not prostitution that's the oldest profession, but painting. Or making tools. Painting, as with all the arts, might not be so many steps away from prostitution, in the sense of selling one's most intimate feelings with those who have the money to pay for it all, but painting has its own realm. It is image making, Making images.

And making images? Why is that a driving force? Why does that set someone down in a drawing session with a naked person, trying to capture, in a line, or shade. some semblance of feeling, or reality? What set Vincent down to draw, again and again, the peasant, and the farmer, and the prostitute and farmer?

Now there is image making in photography, Everyone, owns a camera, shoots, is moved, collects, ammasses. Wonders how to archive that mass of data. Tweaks a photo.

Does this eclipse the person that takes a stub of pencil and draws a curvy line?

Are they different worlds? Those that feel the material, the grinding of charcoal, or paint, or the intimate softening of charcoal, and shading, and craftsmanship, against those who point, shoot, and suck in the world by their being there?

Ken Drives By

Ken comes by in his car, and slows down as i am loading my car with tools, and he says he is drawing a lot, over in Bothell, can't recall the name of the gal who runs it, but its pretty good, though its during the work day, but there are some pros there, like Ned Mueller, and i ask him if there are nude models, and he says 2 out of 3, but they are really good. You should go, he says, I say, well, i would like to, but really, i think, what is the point here? Its not like i am getting work out of this- the poses aren't long enough.The economy crashes, and suddenly there's no drawing anymore. No one drawing, except out in Bothell.

I collect books. I would guess i have 5,000 or 10,000. My nephew tried to calculate. I collect nothing thats worth anything, just stuff that inspires me, either by content, or its cover. I like complete series of things. If i learn that there more buy an author, i want them all. Or a series. But nothing expensive, not first editions. But a vast library of, well, my own brain. Truly, like these its my brain you walk into when you peruse these books, each one a synapse that fires.

I mention this as I know that books, like drawing, are on their way out. A person can take a photo, and convert it to a perfect watercolor or charcoal drawing, a person can read anything on a kindle. Theres's not going to be a reversal of this movement, its sensible, energy efficient, and matches the mood of a world more crowded and less able to deal with material things, like books, or drawings.

But it occurred to me today, that there is a difference. And I am trying to recall now what my insight was. I think it was this: that there is a psychic difference in whether a computer does the work, or a person. That maybe, maybe, maybe, it matters if a life form processes the information, that one draws, that one picks up a real book, that its real, and processed by a psyche. Dang. And that somehow matters. I say it now and it seems like it doesn't matter.

I don't know that it does. We live in interesting times. A curse. Some say we haven't felt at home since the 12th century. When everything was so clear. Actually, that's something i saw in  movie starring Ronald Reagan- called King's Row, pretty darn good, and i think the sentiment is from Henry Adams-his book Mont St Michelle- isn't that  right?

 Is there some sort of psychic world? Something that proceeds? Something that develops? Apart from the world of dinosaur dioramas? Is it possible- even remotely- that this all makes some sort of differnce? All this hassle, all of this birthing, deathing?