Sure, it's been a while. So what if I considered calling quit my pathetic blogging only a half hour ago, and at this instance am back at it again? Just ask my indestructible peony (the one I bought five years ago labeled "Guaranteed to Grow," and which I proceed to pronounce dead at end of each subsequent growing season, and which resurrected every following spring), it will tell you that for me to pick up the pieces, the object of my engagement must be made of steel, persist in staring in my face daily, leaving me restless and guilty at night.
That's what this blog has done. And, here I'm back at it again.
But if I told you that posts had not just been scant, but near extinct, not because I had nothing to say, but because I had too much to say that I simply let it slump, would you believe, and understand?
And I'll let you in on another reason for the days of not-saying-much: painting.
Unlike English, the grammar of painting is not second language to me. Line, color and shape are words I know at heart, in which intellect and instinct feed each other wordlessly. I search and formulate meaning in what I see, and delight in the pure act of seeing. When things go well I elate and exult; very often failure throws me back in self-pity and despair. Remembering the yoke of the gift and the promise of joy, I pick up the pieces and start over. At the end of a day in the studio, I'm exhausted.
It's a condensed explanation of how painting can placate the urge for verbal expression.
Placate, but not equal. And since painting is essentially a lonely activity, it cannot speak camaraderie nor utter names. There's anguish in that lonesomeness, and I have missed my friends whom I've grown fond of. Can't say I'm here to make total mends for my omissions, but at least sticking my neck out the cave to say "Hi!"