Writing is work. I write despite the fear of being judged, of making a mistake, of losing a loved one. I write despite deciding there’s nothing new left to say, that it’s all been said before.
“I think of happiness and joy as the ultimate rebellious act. Art makes joy and joy makes art.”
“I wrote about my dolls. I wrote about the dogs I owned on a video game. I don’t recall a point in time when I consciously thought about the transition from reader-only to reader-writer. It just happened.”
“I have a cozy studio that I slowly put together over time. I love the smell of it, too—I think all of the accumulated art products have created the distinct smell. My studio smells like paper to me.”
These pieces by @ingrid_elzinga and @mattchalk make me very happy.
I spent an afternoon at the Guggenheim with Swedish artist Hilma af Klint’s abstract, spiritual collection, one she began creating in 1906.
I told a friend of mine that I watch Kim of Queens as a way to bore myself into productivity
rainfall as sound meditation
If you live, commute, and work in any big city, you know how difficult it can be sometimes to find a quiet place to work.