So I wonder today why I’m resisting making things. Is it about making them? Or are they a by-product of my thinking and contemplating and if I don’t have anything that needs to get out there in that language I don’t make anything? Because this is ‘what I do’, I should be doing it everyday, or at least that is what I assume is expected from someone like me. Good old social pressure. But at the same time I am slowly coming to the conclusion that pure living, being, if you will, is already perfection in itself, consciousness in its base form, the beginning of everything, the thing that lies at the core, the thing that is signified, to what everything points to. So where does art come in? I have a suspicion that I first need to believe my own words, accept and then start building up from there, to be open and receptive to what will come, not resist. This is all good and well but I forget and get distracted from this deep knowing, for example by having to go to the shop because we have no more butter. This constant moving between what is real and ‘what is real’ or rather what is perceived as our normal world is quite strenuous and distracting in itself. It feels as if I bounce around without having any input of where I am at any given time (time – also one of those). It scares me sometimes. But what scares me the most is the thought that I have lived a life untruthful, ignorant and blinded by superficiality, posing to be the real thing, and I don’t mean superficiality in our ‘real world’, but actual depth. That our depth is superficial. I am scared to go all the way to find out, but at the same time I’m dying to know, literally. But again, where does that leave me with regards to my profession? I don’t even know what it is anymore. What I see for example in galleries or museums, what I am told about what I see, what I perceive, what others around me make and what I make all seem to be one side of a pentagon, not coming together. And I hope you understand how even that experienced confusion seems so small and futile when shifting between versions of ‘real’ that suck you in. At the same time I am afraid to start something, a painting for example, because I feel judged and unworthy. Welcome back to the ‘real world’.