I once was a dancer and a pianist and a painter and a writer, trying them on to see if they would fit. I eventually chose one – painting – and devoted myself to it. I now find I have returned to wanting to do it all again. Music and video and painting, painting, painting. Rid myself of models and heros, scream out loud and greet the rushing force that spins this world, no longer with my head under a pillow, wishing it all away. Willingly enter darkness and come back with stories to tell.
Finding one’s place and putting down roots has much to recommend it. I have tried – in San Francisco, in Santa Fe, in Marfa – yet I am restless and sooner or later my restlessness uproots me like a tumbleweed. Then I look to the next horizon. (Slowly I begin to understand that I carry home with me.)
Like Santa Fe and, before it, San Francisco, there is Marfa and there is the myth of Marfa created in part by the seemingly endless articles in the New York Times. Yes, Chinati is incredible. But incredible also are the greetings and genuine smiles of the three women tellers at Marfa National Bank, impromptu gatherings at the post office, listening to the stories of those for whom Marfa has been home for generations. Marfa was for me a retreat, ironically from the art world as it turned out. A place where I remembered that creating is process, not result and with that remembrance happily tucked into my pocket was able to enter the studio again after an almost three-year hiatus. I am glad Marfa was that place of retreat and reflection.