It's been weeks and weeks of head-down, focused hard work in the studio. Not the painting room, but the dirty, dusty, messy room where casting, carving and sanding take place. And not the "difficult" work of metaphor or story lines but the "hard" work of chemistry and physical labor. Because that's a lot of what being a sculptor is. Chemistry and physical labor.
And it's been good. Mostly.
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But oh how, after all these years, I am an expert at what I do. On all sides. From conception to execution to managing to marketing.
And everything in between.
And no, I haven't been here. I think sometimes, that I've already said everything I had to say on this blog. Other times, I think whatever I have to say will be better said in some other format - like books.
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It's not the same as writing here. It's sort of like the difference between reading a book and reading an electronic version of a book on Kindle.
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So yes. I'm a well of information on the limited subject of being a sculptor, being an artist, making a living at it and managing to find inspiration to keep it all going.
I can tell you how to avoid air bubbles in a mold, how to pull an idea out of thin air, how to cope with depression, how to skin a catfish or grow squash. How to create a profit and loss statement. How to sell prints at a convention.
I'm coming up on 25 years. Twenty five. Of making art and making a living at it. Of finding meaning in it.
Ask me something. How can I help you? I want to, if I can.