Time flies when you're not keeping track of it.

In an effort to remain awake until 8 am, I am writing a semester's end post. I come to you from a truly vulnerable state, having spent the last week putting every ounce of my being into a set of 3 paintings, only to have them turn into a kitschy triptych (hardly compelling enough to attract even the most oblivious collector of student artwork). Disappointment is always so rich at 5 am.

So what does one do once they realize their most grueling semester, and consequently, undergraduate life as they know it has nearly come to it's end? Come up with silly, and yet troubling questions that never seem to attract a thought during the daytime, of course.

Would you rather have painter's hands or a dancer's limbs?

I feel surprised that the obvious answer doesn't feel like the right one. The artists resign themselves to the constant position of observer and transcriber, while the dancers act out. I appreciate the ability to visually describe myself fully and with lucidity, but I often feel like no one is asking the questions I feel so eager to answer. I fear that the melancholy I have so porously accepted these past few years carries no weight outside of my own body. That weight is so heavy for just me. I am envious of those long-limbed creatures to whom release comes so gracefully.



I think it's time to retire this lovingly abused gesso brush.