One day you just wake up with that singular urge to create. The hands slowly start to feel restless. The throat feels tight. The eyes simply can’t rest at one point anymore but instead, they are all over the place. The urge to give birth. The urge to detach from the “doing” and reach the “done”. The urge to skip all steps and reach nirvana.

The colors didn’t matter. The crayons seemed to fail. The dollar store felt incredibly small. She found the toothpicks and that’s all that was needed. From now on, her body switched to automatic mode and it wouldn’t stop until it was done.

Something about the process. Something that we discover along the way and along the lines of every final product, of every text. Something that we only discover in between the starting and final point.

The fear of being stuck on square one or not meeting our own expectations rules the artist. What was created was a tension. It wasn’t a final piece or a sculpture per se, but instead a naked tension that resulted from one’s own desires and limitations. This scenario inevitably brings me directly to influential critic Rosenberg, whom once said that Abstract Expressionist artists started seeing the canvas as “an arena in which to act”. In the midst of a complex text, which in my humble opinion seems pointless, I definitely found this quite interesting. We are all vulnerable human beings and a lot of times life becomes an arena in which to act, nothing else. This arena is what I call the process.

I like to call this one The Dripping Sequence, in which the artist left his gestural mechanisms to lead the way. N o t h i n g   e l s e ………….

Thank you, my friend Cara for letting me yack about your inspiring and joyful creations…




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