I’ve been wondering lately (and therefore procrastinating) what is it that I want to say with this blog. Why do I feel the need to tell, write, express. I ponder this often. I chose the path of an artist. This is not the obvious path to financial stability, although finances are the dimension of my life by which I and many others judge my success. So, why be an artist? The drive of an artist is to express, communicate, question. For nearly forty-five years I have had this itch, an internal crawling to get it out. Just tell everyone. It is such an itch that I get an awful pit in my stomach when I try. The problem is I don’t know what it is that I need to express. When I face this dilemma head on and really dig deep, searching my inner quagmire for a reason, or purpose, or message I come up empty, or maybe short, or maybe I’m afraid of it. So I continue painting, sculpting and writing always of the human, be it the body or the mind. One thing has rung true throughout my life of art, that I am always searching for a better understanding of humans. Why are we here? What is our purpose? What is my purpose? Why did I meet her? Why didn’t I meet him? Why did I fall ill? Why did she die? Why do we persist despite great tragedies? Why are you rich? Why is she poor? Why was he beaten? Why was I abused? Why?
In all these years of searching, I have been writing, drawing, remembering. Trying at least to remember what little I do. I was happy. That’s what I remember. I remember that as a little girl I was happy and that mostly I forget. Here, I will remember as much as I can of Dot.