Southwest property line
After catching myself wanting to let another blog anniversary pass by unceremoniously, I’m struck by the thought that my work enjoys an irrelevancy that is usually reserved for private things, and this blog has become little more than mute affection for my immediate surroundings. (Actually, these aren’t revelations, but maybe it’s time to try to think about this a bit more clearly.) I look at the subjects that interest me today, the small and claustral scenes that I rejoice in wherever I am, and wonder what if any meaning is actually there. When exactly did I devote myself whole-cloth to things I never even noticed when I moved here, and how did I end up with this tinker’s archive of 558 curious shapes and shadows, my small stitches of thought tailing behind fewer and fewer? Is this attention to environmental detail the natural progression of examination, or obstinacy?
With the ever-increasing apprehension available in my ‘professional’ life, artistic pursuits have been called upon to provide more and more ballast and buffer against everyday frustrations, and as such isn’t really asked to serve any core function of an art in culture. It is self-serving in that it exists to allow me to connect to something that is real and reaffirming. But it is also self-serving in that it serves no one else. But whom should it serve? What does it build on, and where is it going?
I have no idea. The mind wanders, interests change or vanish altogether. As timelines go, it can be worthwhile on occasion to wonder if a younger version of yourself would like the person you have become. The work that you do, the things that you find important, the people you value. It can be troubling to discover that perhaps not, and that maybe you no longer even care for the memory of your younger self. If nostalgia is the enemy of progress, how extractable is the value of experience? And how reliable? I suppose that’s what I like best about the ‘blogging experience’. I can look back at what I was, and also see what I am. While frequently cringe-worthy, there is no mistaking either. And from those two points, maybe dead-reckon where I am going. Or at least try to get out of my own way.