Writers' block; a unsettling ailment for a living, thinking artist.
Subdued in suburbia, no longer tackling obstacles to find a roof for every night, having to go no further than my kitchen to cook up an appealing meal, I am faced with a new condition: quiet.
I used to live in a sort of survivalist mode, continually moving forward with no time to look backwards or sideways. I had places to get to, art to create, and changing details to relentlessly arrange.
Now my travels have been cut in half. I spend a glorious half of the year at home being a homebody and a fabulous other half of the year being my artful nomad self. Time at home is beautiful, but the flip flop of emotions and experiences that go with home and travel are a whole new sensation to accustom myself to. Me, nervous about details before embarking on a two week trip? Before there never were these feelings - there were no start or finish to trips, only life.
I am still building my notion of home; little by little the roof that houses me feels more like mine. I watch the light dance on walls, and push myself to embrace a more solitary art experience. The collaborative nature of how I model has always been a high, energy and ideas bounce between the two of us model and photographer, as we move forward, creating images. I tire of spending efforts online seeking out models to share their time and self with me, encouraging a model to embrace the idea of working with a newer, female photographer, which leaves me with one model to call on time and again, myself.
So in the quiet, I stand face to face with myself, she who never leaves me and is my one-and-only internal muse.