It’s been an interesting week. I’m on a weeklong train trip, and I didn’t bring any art materials with me but that didn’t stop me wanting to make art so I had to find art materials instead. I shouldn’t congratulate myself, it’s not hard. Everything is art, it turns out.
I thought words would be enough art for me this week but apparently not, apparently I’ve entered a new, slightly inconvenient and mildly feverish stage of needing to have colors and shapes with my words, which seem very gray and dull by themselves. Words don’t seem adequate any more. They’re just not up to the job. Black and white, two-dimensional, only 26 letters…what is that all about? Why did we ever give up hieroglyphs?
So I sit in my hotel room and deal loteria cards out on the table, and I sit in my train compartment and rip up pieces of paper, content to have everyone walking by think I’m a madwoman.
(Being on a train, by the way, is like being an actor on a stage which is being continuously trundled past the scenery. Someone needs to write a play that takes place on a train and has a continuous projection of moving background. Someone do that.)
I’ll be back home in a couple of days and I’m almost dreading it — what will I do for art materials when I have a house full of art materials? That sounds overwhelming.
I’ll be back tomorrow, probably. It turns out this is a wide country, and it turns out that space is time.