Have I used this title already?
I don’t know.
It seems like this is a frustration that has become all too common lately: no time for art.
I have counseled others in the past. I’ve said, if it’s important, you will find the time. I cringe at my arrogance. Sometimes, it is not a matter of lack of desire or not enough interest or a shortage of passion. Sometimes it is simply that there is not enough time.
If I were to run into a little extra time, beyond my 40-hour-a-week job, and the news magazine that takes all my spare time (though I cut corners and neglect duties associated with it and always feel that I should be doing more)…if there were more hours available after dog walking and helping my aunt…if I didn’t have this writing commitment…if I didn’t need to take care of my own house and yard, cook my own meals, do my own laundry…if I had a gardener…well, then!
If my time were freed up in some magical way, so that things that demanded my attention, and things I have neglected and felt guilty about, and things that have just been ignored were all taken care of…I would be in the studio.
I might be assembling collages, inking collagraph plates, or painting. I might be wedging balls of clay or shredding paper for pulp. I could be trying out something brand new, or finishing something that has been waiting for months. I’d see it now with fresh eyes, and would find a new and fresh way forward. I might find a way to use old materials, or burn them to make room for new ideas.
I would be busy, that I guarantee. I would be enjoying myself.
Tears come, as I type. This is not a happy situation. Long ago, I placed art in the center of my life, crucial to my identity, important to my sense of self. How did my life become so full of things that are not art? This is the frustration coming through. The frustration that comes from no time for art.