No one was up when I left – most everything I owned was packed into the Mazda.
The road was empty except for the fog.
I arrived late afternoon, 15 hours later, at the large red mill building – a central landmark for this rural, Vermont town. I was given three keys and left to create.
White walls, white design, reflecting the daunting task of making “art.”
Almost a year later, here I am again. Faced with the reality of my extremely privileged “life of an artist.” This month is my month. My month to focus, my month without distractions, my month of freedom, my month without responsibilities, my month of creativity, my month of time – all the time in the world… for the next 26 days.
The metaphorical clock ticked as my frustration set in.
Why was a 900 mile trip still not enough??
Once again, I found myself packing the Mazda in hopes that 15 minutes more would be enough.
I found my way to an empty space and prepared to wait it out, wait for a connection only the muse herself could create.
The earth made a deep thumping sound as my boots stomped along the worn path of searching. Clearly, I was not the first one here, nor would I be the last.
The connection made was not done in a single moment or instant. But there was something or somethings on that path.
Something within those moments of wandering, those moments of stomping, those moments of searching – something of which to speak.
But perhaps I will just let the images do the talking.