These days what I create exists in stolen moments generally. In a way, it reminds me of how I started out. When I was in school, or working I was constantly daydreaming. HARD. Scheming. Plotting. envisioning. Almost like an act of defiance. Yes, my body and my time was being owned, or co-opted but my mind was my own. I've had such a complicated relationship with my art since I started the lingerie business. Two years ago I told everyone I was done forever. In part, because I had started film and film was like this whole new dimension and I just wanted to exist solely on that plane. The other side of that was I was in serious burnout. I divorced myself from the very thing that drove me into manic creation for years and years. Something I've struggled with is separating myself from what I create. I very much feel that I am what I've made and vice versa. So when the creating is gone there is this hollow feeling of just... existing. I had to force myself to stay in that mind frame. I think it was an important thing for me to experience. It's okay to just live. For so long I was always working towards something. what that something was I literally can not even begin to decide.
So here I am on the otherside. Instead of pumping my other boob while my 10 month old is occupied, or tidying up (endless loop) I snuck off to the kitchen and photographed this la petite mort. A little death. the final throws. Postcoital let down of store bought tulips. Then I sat to write. These stolen moments make me feel like.. me again. Taking the time to catch the light right then, instead of passing it over and thinking about it for days and self flagellating in missed opportunity.
Happy Friday my friends.