Words are tangled up inside of me. They hold me down, my malevolent hitch-backing ghosts, and so I use them, these tangled fragments. Not to be spoken but to be taken from me and given to my work. They are the silent critics that are never quiet. The fears I barely hold at bay. Twisting and pulsing beneath my breastbone, my little anxieties, I take them out and I play with them.
And as I play they are reframed. With the stroke of a line, I use them to point to quiet moments of success. The crescendos of winking, sashaying colors, the moments when the problems I have created within my work are solved, and all is well.
I create problems to be solved. The blank page, the calm before the storm, I stare at it and I wait. I wait for the rising rhythm of a song, the overwhelming fascination that drives me on, the feeling of faith without religion, and the wonder that is my inner guide. And then I move.
I move without thought. I move without a plan. I create a problem. Because there was no plan I now have to create a world for my mistake to inhabit. I build it structure to cling to. I give it color for vibrancy. I stand before it and listen because I have created something that wants to be heard. It tells me what is dull. It tells me where it lacks. I see all its weakness and every place it sings.
And then I scribble out the words it tells me, the ones that will not be quiet, so that I can listen, so that I can act, so that I can answer.