back story

I received a thoughtful gift from a very sweet boy for Christmas this year.  A boy into whose hands I am forever putting paper and pencils and markers so that he will write and draw and record his experiences.  He is, at best, ambivalent about my ideas for him but he knows it's important to me.  He must because he returned the favor by personally selecting and wrapping and proudly handing me a new sketch diary and watercolor pencils on Christmas morning -- A journal-style set that wraps up and packs small so that I might take it with me when I go.

Now here is the thing.  I make things (mostly food).  My hands like to be busy.  I also spend a lot of time trying to see things, but I have a difficult time "making" pictures of the things I see.  That's why I have a camera, but it has limitations, I have limitations, and it's also not quite enough to stop me from wanting something else.  I like the way you have to look at something, very differently, and very long to get it from your eye to your hand and then on a page.  If taking a photograph is about capturing something, drawing or painting something seems to have more in common with trying to become a little bit of what it is you're trying to create.  Terrifically appealing under the "what if..." category. On the other hand there is an enormous amount of space between my eyes and the page and I am afraid of its variables and unknowns.  It's a struggle to even stand at the edge of the gap.  I am afraid of what I don't know.  Afraid to fail.  Afraid to admit it.  Afraid to be foolish.  Terrifically afraid.

I want desire to win.  It's not because I think I might make good pictures.  I'm not sure that's the point, BUT this is not an apology for making bad pictures.  Or for sharing them.  It's a bit of a continuation of my "I want it because I do and I don't want fear to win" manifesto.  It's not really even about trying or failing or succeeding.  It's about not letting something else write my story.  When I sit here with my finger on the mouse, arrow hovering over the "publish" button, it feels like standing at edge of the high-dive or like the day my friend dropped me off at an entrance to the Appalachian Trail.  I shouldered my pack and watched him drive away...  Then I turned and headed into that gap full of unfamiliar territory, feeling the woods close in behind me as I made my way. Thrilled by moving ahead in spite of my fears.