Going through the remnants of the folio I brought back from England, I was struck yesterday with how much of a struggle my artistic pursuit has always been.I don’t mean in a technical way-at varying degrees I’ve improved as anyone would when they do something over an extended period of time.
Even thematically I’ve always steered true to the convictions of my muse.
No, the struggle has come in the face of indifference, rejection, poverty and obscurity and I don’t think that I really ever gave myself the credit that I’ve remained so focused on the goal of my passion, and making some sort of life with art in it as a foundation. I guess I’m recognizing that no matter how much life has kicked me down, the desire to create something has been a positive that I’ve returned to again and again, inspite of it.
Even if at the end of it all, I am not recalled in whatever annals by virtue of even a footnote-and as I get older, the realisation of that strikes me as more than a possibility now-my art has given me more than it has taken,and perhaps that’s all I could ever have hoped for.