Yesterday I felt incredibly lucky that the model in figure class was male—I didn’t have to think. There is something about entering the body of the unfamiliar, of finding yourself there and putting it on paper. He also kept his eyes closed, he wasn’t comfortable. He wasn’t like the woman who sat for me last week who knew exactly who she was, who stared at me unflinching. Granted that type of model is easy, produces stronger work but yesterday I needed someone else. I needed to write in my head while I painted. It is not always like that.
My manuscript is off to Ireland this week. Carolyn Forche is taking it with her on a trip, the newest version. I expect ten pages of syntax. Somehow I see this as lucky, a part of me is going off to Ireland. List the places the book has been, the book that really isn’t a book: Russia, California, Arizona, Washington D.C., Delaware, and now Ireland. Not to mention the drafts which have hidden in my car, piano and under Bella’s bed b/c she needed drawing paper. It seems the book, which doesn’t have a home (publisher) seems to be a lot like me---she travels. She makes her home in the space allotted, continues on.
I know I should find this lucky. I do not yet, though I acknowledge that there may be a strength in it I don’t understand.
I am lucky to be up before the children, to have that feeling I may write again. After all the craziest has settled, the house, these things I have not dealt with, I will still be a writer. Liz says there’s wisdom in knowing your self as an artist, to know the strength of your work isn’t about timing or windows, winning awards. It is a foundation, you return to, a place to always build upon but I still believe-- there’s a bit of luck is involved.