Sunday, January 21, 2007


One of the things I've begun to understand about working at home is that it takes some effort and awareness to keep work and personal life separate. It's better for me if they are. Good to have some sort of schedule. If I don't pay attention, the blocks of work time and home time start to get broken up into smaller and smaller blocks and mixed together into this sort of homogenous gray thing where I'm doing bits of each all mixed together and not concentrating fully on either.

Not a good plan.

The breakdown is insidious. It's difficult to see until it gets uncomfortable. Just like slowly gaining weight. You don't see it until, well---you know.

Damned holidays and their cream cheesy goodness.

So. Time to separate these little bits back into big blocks of studio work and personal life. Time to remember something that writers and artists and other creative, work-driven people forget---that there actually is a personal there...somewhere.


"Alison's Midnight Snow" papier mache 14 inches tall.

Alison was here this weekend. She helped me realize I'm cramming too much work into too little spacetime. It's making me crazy. (er) Then she took her Poppet home.

Thanks, kiddo.


Quixotic said...

That Poppet is utterly gorgeous.

And yeah, working at home can lead to imbalance, even when the work is "just a job" - I finally woke up to that last year, and think I've just about worked out how to deal with it. Now to learn how to separate more creative time out of that. Ho-hum!

Carl V. said...

What a darling, heart warming picture!

Great poppet as well.

I salute your ability to actual persevere and be able to be successful working at home. I can only imagine how difficult it would be for me to stay focused. I always get a kick out of writers, artists, etc. talking about all the horrible household tasks that seem so inviting when the temptation comes to not focus on the 'work' of creating art.

Really_Rather_Not_Nice said...

Midnight Snow

In rich dark blue, all stars and space,
The sky is velveteen and lace.
The moon, a steady, staring face,
It’s eyes are black and still.

The earth is bare, all hard and dead,
Its sheet of white has not been spread.
No sign of weather overhead,
And all is soaked in chill.

The tension in the air is thick,
As taught as wire. Hard as brick.
But in that silence, comes a tick,
As if a clock were counting.

And as the witching hour knells,
Upon that clock’s eternal bells,
A cloudbank in the heavens swells,
And snow bursts forth in fountains.

The moon’s dark eyes grow slightly wide;
While crystal dancers dive and glide,
And spin within that sky-borne tide,
It tracks their earthward flight.

In robes and collars fine as glass,
These agile gymnasts tumble past;
Touch foot to land and gather fast,
To glaze the ground with white.

And so the naked earth is dressed,
In top-hat, tails, and silver vest.
Its wardrobe, all the very best,
And trimmed in lunar glow.

Now seeing Winter’s promise kept,
The land all frosted and snow-swept.
Alone, and silent, off it crept:
That spirit: Midnight Snow.