Compulsion to work

I am trying to learn how to appreciate down time but its not working very well. In the month since I broke my hand I have commissioned a new web site, written four chapters of a new book, driven to Tucson for a solo show, and developed new marketing strategies.

You would think I would go outside. Walk. Breath clean air. Cook sumptuous meals and discover new pairings. But I don't. I sit in front of my computer. I clean the house. I sit in front of my computer some more. I don't even read. It has been said, mostly by my children who are too young to appreciate these things, that all I ever do is work. True. I made the doctor cut the cast off so I could do patinas.

Yet it is the work that I love. The everyday dirtiness of it. Noise and dust, sparks flying, sweat and cuts, the all too many cusswords everytime I burn myself or can't get a piece to make sense. In that environment, I am free from my mind. And in the work there is quiet that can not be obtained anywhere else. In my studio, I am alone with everything I know, everything I feel, everything I want. And it is this mix of images and memories, dreams and desires which stirs and stews until they become a vision and finally a sculpture. Then, there is a beauty I can touch--a sunset that doesn't fade, a flower that never wilts, a universe or a poem. When I'm walking, I am always going somewhere. When I'm working I am still.