Mark Bloome is a collector. I heard him speak in 2001. He shared a poem which he kindly helped me fill in the gaps from my quick scribbling while he recited it. I came across it today and it is so fitting with how I am feeling. Thanks to everyone for their kind words. I have attempted to repair what pieces of broken pottery that could be repaired. I know that if it does not work out, I can make more. In fact, I like the rattle I made today much better than the original. Art for me has always been about the process.
Art is Difficult
We crawl into a fractured cave; the hard crack of creativity pierces
our hearts. Red visions float forward, fold into our fabric.
Our knees bleed, cut by jutting black stones that pave
the passageway. Most turn back.
Art emerges, piles up like brown grit blown by the wind: mud
at the bottom, dirt in the middle, a few glinty grains at the top.
Shout at the stars for making mud the way it is. Blast the wind for
scattering the sand. Baying at the moon will not spin sand into
Take the cloth, sew the coat, carry it to the street, stand on the
corner, say "This is mine, I made it."
Art fractures us into explosions of light.