The artists I know are perfectionists, heartlessly so, because that is required. They will paint right over a failed canvas; they will rip out every stitch and start anew. The artist comes to her material with an mix of control and surrender, and her success seems to rely on her ability to grasp a material’s specific demands, while reconciling those with her own vision. There is something there, in the material, that works against you—which requires rigor, but might bring relief.
“Do you remember our first / January at Eagle Pond, / the coldest in a century? / It dropped to thirty-eight below— / with no furnace, no storm / windows or insulation. / We sat reading or writing / in our two big chairs, either / side of the Glenwood, / and made love on the floor / with the stove open and roaring. / You were twenty-eight. / If someone had told us then / you would die in nineteen years, / would it have sounded / like almost enough time?”
* Ashley David *
At 6 a.m., stress percolates in urban and suburban landscapes on par with coffee. I can feel it. Not enough sleep. No good breakfast. Kids were ornery. Bus was late. Fought with spouse. My boss will kill me if I don’t finish this report. I hate my job. Forgot my deodorant. Ugh, it’s Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday. T.G.I.F. Why would anyone, given an option, want to participate in this stew?