Yesterday, after spending Monday and Tuesday prepping, wrapping, and packing up my work into two cars, Michael and I drove through the the famous Los Angeles traffic into Santa Monica: the extreme East Side to the West, 14 paintings on canvas in my car, and 15 framed drawings in his.
Things are going, going, going. Every time I think I’m getting a lot done, I get a lot more done. It’s like I waved some magic wand over January, but I didn’t. Because, that would mean it was all effortless. And that’s just not true. I’ve been working on those special editions of Shrapnel and each include a small, 5 x 8 inch watercolor painting. I’m making 30 books in all: 26 lettered ones, an Artist Proof, a bon à tirer (B.A.T.), a Hors Commerce (HC) that can be used as a sample for handling, and at least one trial proof. A lot of fancy French terms are used in edition printing…
As hard as I tried to stay up til midnight on New Years Eve, I just couldn’t make it. So, it’s official. I’m old!
I woke up to 2019, early, as usual, and felt much the same as I did the year before. Only now I feel that stupid obligation to make changes to “better” myself. Great. More pressure.
If you’ve been reading my writing blog, Shrapnel (for “short”), you’d know that I finished my book last week. Hell must have frozen over or something.
Just reaching out, but not so much as to open my front door over the past week. It was too hot out there! Did you go out there? Jeez. It was crazy hot and humid here. It’s finally cooled down to the freezing upper 80s, so now it’s “nice” outside. I know I should not comment on the weather here when, A. us Californians have no right to do that, and B. the country has suffered enough already. However, I do not comment on news or current events on this blog. I try not to anyway. But I think it goes without saying that I feel horrible about these disasters. I think we all feel horrible.