If the world runs out of clay I’d still call myself an artist being that the work is in my head and that’s where I decide what I want to be and which materials work with what I want to say and anyway once I set my goal, back in the mid 90”s, that was that. No going back. Like my sister. We will always be sisters. No matter where we are or what I think she thinks of me.
Each ball of string is the exit from my now world back to a past full of memories and should –have- dones. This ball is basketball size and holds the secrets of sisterhood and staying the path of genetics and expectations. Like don’t be poor, don’t slurp your food, don’t not help someone in need, educate myself, make money and invest smartly. The ball of string reminds me – as long as I can hold onto it – who I am meant to be, which is not who I am. Lordy,
NOBODY expected or wanted me to be an artist. But each time I yanked on the damn string, near broke it, I’d hear a little pause…baboom baboom baboom baboom baboom…sending signals to just sever it…it was in the clay. A sister’s world of success, money, marketing. In the anti-culture of extreme politics ripping apart museums, discrediting important artworks and sending troops off to smash things and people. Boom boom boom boom boom boom. Thoughts break strings. This is where I suspect that there is a design for each of us and when holding the little security package, basketball size, it’s okay to let go, break the string, and just maybe beneath your feet, just maybe, the bed of clay is still there.
Sending love to you and Hermione.