So now that I’m back from visiting Jess, I feel recharged and more connected with existence. I am eager to start, to paint, to make, to write, to talk. But it does feel like I’m going back into my little cage even though I know it’s my attitude and perspective of my surroundings. I really wonder why I struggle so much with embracing what is, but always want something that takes me deeper into myself and tickles my stomach and heart so that I have the courage to know that what I do is not wasting air. Also, after having seen lots of work by the heroes of the field, I feel small and overwhelmed and am wondering if we would have anything in common? I would love to talk to them and ask, being incredibly awkward and shy sitting there star-struck, but they are dead. The only thing we have is their work and what others have interpreted it to mean, which is also so tricky. Art historians invent and categorise. I don’t know if I want to trust them, knowing that the source, the reason, the intention for making something can never be exposed, only signified.

I bought a book on notes and texts by Marlene Dumas and it helped me to read authentic words, to also see that paintings (in her case) are not all there is to her, that her visual language goes hand in had with her written word. I am starting to think that visual work is what lies in between the lines of text, but the two together, maybe not on the same surface though, seem to help each other out, to open up more. And again, what is more. It might just be that these little blocks of fear that need to be faced and conquered and dissolved are in fact all created by myself, the self with the whip. It is actually all good, as the universe is neutral.

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