Click through for the three images included.
Our 1860s house came with only four closets--the "Cape Ann" kind that have a narrow door, a shallow back, but strangely deep sides where it's easy to stuff things and consequently lose them for years. Even when organized they are far too cavernous and dark to access regularly or easily. We had such a closet in our bedroom, but it was only large enough to store Josh's clothes so I stored mine in a spare dresser in the bathroom. A few years ago over summer break I designed a system for our room that would suit our needs--the right amount of drawer space for both of us to fit all of our clothing at all times, the right amount of hanging space, shoe storage and sweater storage, plus a shallow mirror closet. Josh took a month and demolished our room and built the unit from scratch. It is perfect.
Over the past month, I have been agonizing over writing my artistic goals. I've tried writing them out in list form. I've tried writing them out in prose form. I've tried putting some into my calendar so that my phone sings me little songs at random times and I look at it to see a message to "email contact today!" which I immediately ignore with a little shudder. It's not that I have difficulty creating work. It's that I haven't been able to dig in and find that one particular goal that will make me pursue it with, say, the determination that I recently used to locate the ideal white linen summer dress. (Even when I found said dress, I stalked it for a week to make sure it was all that I wanted it to be. It is. I'm a great stalker.)
What I think I'm missing is not a goal, but a dream. The fact that I continue to make art when the circumstances of my life are demanding and fight me with almost, but not quite, the same strength with which I fight them, means that there's something I want out of all of this. My friend Grace would say that it's because I'm a scorpio, and scorpios bury themselves in the deep darkness and only come out when they're ready to sting. Maybe. That actually has a ring of truth to it. It's like there is something forgotten and important at the back of my closet and I'm going to need to pull out everything to find it. The closet door is now open and the mess is annoying me every day.
It won't be long now.
(I apologize to the likers and commenters on this original posting. I accidentally deleted it and had to find it in Google cache.)