Drawing.

For the past few months daily drawing with a black Bic pen in a notebook has been a means to explore what I think and feel. I have not been able to write much, except a few (20 since last spring) art reviews. Making one work for the Deluge Lost LP Cover show, which did not sell - can you guess which one is mine? (Any takers?!) has been my sole sculptural output since Edmonton. I would like to blame the weather, the lack of studio space - monetary concerns. However, there is nothing stopping me, should I want to use found materials and wrap them around a telephone pole, for example, or trench sand into forms or use myself as a sculpture, performing some ritualistic incantation, calling the muses to my rescue.These drawings are my collected dream of work yet to come, and with some internal reconstruction, this may yet happen.

Chapter Two

The clock was not striking. It slid silently between three and four in the afternoon.

The western window's heat began waking her from the medicated nap she took to suffer the pain. A back sprain drove the slumber, and dreams. She saw herself in a mirror, pigtailed, as in her youth, wearing a zipper on her mouth, eyes shut, hands bound by barbed twine. Too many 'B' movies, undoubtedly.

Giotto was displaying his colours in the background. Azure and gold, the shimmer drove the mood of the vision, which became a painting? a sculpture? To be made... future travels.

The door opened and shut. And opened and slammed closed. She strove to rise from the black corduroy, pressing her wrists deep into the foam of the chesterfield (couch, for those unacquainted with Canadianisms). Marooned on the worn object, the door of her perceived beginnings became locked in the presence of muscle analgesia.

The early 14th C. paintings loomed before her; salivating, she tasted the ingenuity of non-representation. And the archways! What a solution to the conundrum. Get rid of the doors, and everything will be accessible!