Sometimes I forget who I am.  I forget to paint. 

When I get busy, when I’m feeling down and doubting myself. At least those are the excuses I give when people tell me I should be painting. They say my paintings are beautiful. They say I can sell them and make money. 

The longer I go, the easier it is to not paint. I watch tv and I feel pointless. 

Today I got up all of a sudden, in the middle of a nature show, unwrapped a new canvas, and just started painting. 

The early stages are messy. I just want to get some paint on the canvas. I know it’s just a canvas, and it’s just paint, but I start with blue because in my mind, I see a sky. I already know where this is going.

The simple act of applying color wakes something up inside me. I tap into that dormant purpose.

When I have a paintbrush in my hand, I unlock something and I’m able to think. Not judge. Not swayed by anyone else’s opinion, I just do what I do. I do what I like. I don’t really care whether anyone else would like it. 

I don’t ask for anyone’s advice. It’s personal. It’s intimate. If someone thinks I should do it differently, that’s the painting THEY should be creating. 

I am influenced by other people. I am inspired by what other people do. I take what I like and leave the rest. 

Twenty seven years ago today, my daughter was born. I’ve heard other artists describe their artworks as their children. Mine are not that. As Paula Cole said, “they are only stops along my way.”  Yet I feel new life coming into me when I create. Like a deep breath after swimming under water, I’m revived and I emerge hopeful. 

My art changed when she was born. I went from black and white to bright color, and the subject matter changed, too. So this is a significant day for me. One to think about life and hope and color and love. 

What a day to be alive. 

I bought this cd from Tower Records in San Francisco on 10/16/96, when my daughter was one day old. She was in in a pack strapped to my belly.