I've been thinking a lot about Andy Goldsworthy, one of my very favorite artists, and how his work is intentionally transient; he uses rocks, or twigs, or sheep's wool, to make a shape, and the tide or the wind will wisp it away hours or weeks after he finishes. There was a saint, wasn't there, who weaved baskets and then burned them in a symbol of devaluing this world and his work in it. And I'm in an art show next week, which means someone might buy something I made. If they buy it, they might break it. They might let it get dusty. If something comes loose, they might not glue it back. I feel (on a much smaller scale) what parents must feel when they're about to let their kids leave the house: I've done all I can to take care of you, little shadow box and painting and collages. No one can guarantee your well-being now, but I have to let you go and trust the universe to take care of you. It's not exactly the same as letting fire or water destroy my work, but it's of a piece. And if no one buys my work, well, I can't say I'll be crushed, because I'll get to keep it. Win-win.
The semester has, with breathtaking alacrity, reached that point where I must begin to see work not as standing between me and freedom or leisure but as a gateway to freedom and leisure, a facilitator of those things and a link to them.
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