I think I’m an art junkie.
Seriously. First you do it for fun, and then you do it for a few friends, and then you do it for money, and then you find yourself doing it because you’re bored and don’t know what else to do. I am as psychologically hooked on art as any glassy-eyed stoner is on weed. It’s not even that I WANT to draw, or that I have anything to say, it’s just that with an afternoon to kill, I start drawing, because, y’know. Beats staring into space and breathing shallowly and all.
Since it is a weekend, I should be relaxing and NOT arting. I should be allowing my brain to decompress. I know this. I find myself drawing anyway.
Possibly I need an art intervention of some variety, except that if there’s anything I should NOT be allowed to go cold turkey on, it’s art. It would be ugly. Restraints would be required.
Plus, being my career and everything, there would be other ramifications. Not all addictions are bad, and since one of the great realizations of my adulthood was that I do NOT have to give up all of my bad habits and vices before death, I see no point in even making a start on this one. I am comfortable with my art habit.
I blame the ideas. There’s too many of ’em. S’like my brain is a stagnant marsh of standing water, hatching out idea larvae in vast sweeping swarms. I can’t keep track of them. They’ve been in full swing lately. Maybe it’s something in the air. I try to snag ’em, but I’m one lonely frog in the vast swamp, and the greater part of the idea swarm buzzes on overhead, copulating and biting each other and raining idea body parts down into the water.
I don’t mind having ideas–I’m delighted to have them–but there are limits.