I'm on a break from painting.
I just left my studio,
my head lowered in thought,
a furrowed brow the result of gratifying progress,
I walk past the cosmos
and globe thistle
on the way from the studio to the house
and in an instant I memorize the scene:
the way my body dodges the flowers
which hang over the path,
dead petals compensated by buds,
my shadow on the ground to my right.
I carry my brushes in one hand
and a cleaning basin
full of dirty water
in the other.
When I am immersed in creative thought, I move in one of two ways: quickly, with the sensory efficiency of a dog; or slowly, absently, my spirit trailing behind me. My mind is far ahead.
My senses are alive and exceedingly sharp in the moments after satisfying some impulse to make things. Every sound is crystal clear, all movements feel mechanical, perfect. This is the product of deep concentration and deliberate, intense visual thinking. The elaborate system of thinking and doing is laid bare, humming in tune.
I wish I could map the electricity in my brain during these moments, to get a sense of what's really happening. I'm no Einstein but I do know when my mind is working properly. It's the best feeling in the world.