Sun in the Studio
Sun comes through the window shade.
Winter light in the studio,
each flaw and crack in the glass
sharp in relief.
It is a flawed place you paint in.
Floors coming undone,
covered in canvas, now dirty
from seasons of work. Windows cracked.
No matter. You know what matters.
Space. Light. Color. Room
to let the demons and dancers flow.
It is warm here. Warm enough.
You wear an old orange sweatshirt,
covered with spatters,
colors of every painting you have done
and you realize how much they all clash.
Not unlike a life with themes and episodes
that sing like a discordant chant.
The sun comes in. It is surprising warm for November.
You stand at the blank canvas and choose a color.
A place to begin. Again. Always again,
trying less to create, than find.
About this poem.
I look back sometimes and just wonder at the life behind me. And at the life I have. Makes me shake my head sometimes. How’d I get here from there?
I have often said my creative process was more like therapy, a constant state of discovery, than creativity.
I just liked this picture of one of my windows in the studio, with it’s winter plastic shade to hold in the winter warmth, and have wanted to write a poem to it for a long time. And today, it showed up.
Be well. Travel wisely,