Faces which inspires me: Isabelle Huppert, Edith Massey, Joan Crawford, Charlotte Rampling, Kim McGuire, Therese Juhaug (doping face), David Rockefeller after his sixth heart transplant, Mara Wilson and Gaddafi (such a harsh face, almost like a mask).
Vonda Shepard – Promising Grey Day
It’s a beautiful grey day. My favorite kind of days. It’s like the clouds outside absorb the mists of my mind and I feel all clear and clean in my thoughts. The greyness makes my true colors more vibrant somehow. It’s Saturday but it feels like a “today” – a day without a label or any associations to a specific mood. I am still allergic and I think I’m coming down with a cold, but I don’t care. I feel so alive. If people could see what’s happening on my inside, I’d probably start selling tickets. Idea after idea are born wearing full costumes of completion. I think I have ideas for many years to come. Ideas for art projects, writing projects – even art installations and some lectures. I also want to write a play.
During all these years when I’ve been in some kind of creative paralysis, I’ve collected artistic impressions from other artists, inspiration, understanding of my own artistic voice and talent and created a personal mythology based on my trauma recovery – and it’s been 7 years of digesting all that, compressing it, refining and polishing it up – and now it’s ready to come out of me, like beautiful, little gems. But with the force of a waterfall. It’s hard to go slow. To take one step at a time. I am still a little fragile. Rusty. So I have to go slow, otherwise I’ll eventually crash and burn.
This grey day is a perfect day to enjoy the flow of this force inside me. Without doing anything. Just enjoying the rush of ideas and characters having fun inside me. Using color as their language. A perfect contrast to they grey skies outside.
“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”
― J.K. Rowling
“I would far rather be an outcast
upon the bosom of the great world
than to be an accomplice to
a moral nothingness,
rather a bloody spark that
no hand will shield
that glows wildly and is extinguished
and obliterated with no trace
than glow as a lamp
with a calm measured flame
evening after evening
in that eternal sitting-room
where the canary slumbers
in its blanket-covered cage
and time is slowly counted out
by the old sitting-room clock.
No the spark has the ability
to light the fire
and to know that it was responsible
for the sound of the fire siren
to know it was responsible
for the sea of flames
that broke with tradition
and turned the hourglass upside down.”
– Edvard Munch