Old blue paint. Mixed in the past. “oh cool, I can use this” to get me started. To be a gateway to the days’ work. To start off my time in my studio I have today. Time I’ve been short of for a while now. I have a sitter today. I worked in the morning on projects organizing crap on shelves and nooks. Deals purchased on Amazon we don’t need. Extra packages of boogie wipes, butt creams, potty watches, instruction manuals, an infra-red camera, nuts, screws, coins, things I try to put out of reach. “I’ll deal with it later” I keep saying, until the box of things gets moved to another location, somewhere hidden. “I’ll do this project later” I say. Until there’s boxes of miscellaneous things in every closet, up high. Forgotten, replaced with a purchase of the same exact things because we’ve forgotten we already have them.

I came in my studio today, finished organizing my art supplies, I have allocated 1/3^rd of my studio to my babies. “I’m such a nice mom” I said to myself. To give up part of my studio, my only me space left, even though it’s not taken seriously. “Just a hobby” That’s what some people say. “You have been so happy without a nanny. The babies make you so happy.” He says. “Yeah, I love it but without help I won’t have any studio time, time to paint.” I say. “But you could give up art and still be happy”

I sit here today reeling with feelings of sadness and confusion. What do I want to paint? What for? Well especially now, took the Room show down yesterday and didn’t sell a thing. How do I prove my value and worth when some view everything in monetary terms? Art feeds the soul. It’s who I am. There’s no reasoning with it. There’s no understanding any of it. The only thing to do is to do and let the chips fall as they may. I think I’m doing my best. But I don’t know. I used to come into my studio so excited and so optimistic, I had goals and ideas. I guess I might again tomorrow. I feel like just planting a ton of tomato plants everywhere.

I’m gonna work now. I can’t let other people define me. Even though they do. Such gossipers.