Sunday, April 08, 2007
Age is a funny thing. I often forget my own, temporarily. I have to keep reminding myself of how old, or young, I am. It seems irrelevant at times.
I have not been asked my age by many people since turning 33 in February, so I am still inclined to answer 32 when prompted. I’m still the same person, just 12 months older.
Have I really changed in the past year? In the past 5 years? Longer? I still like sad songs and red wine. I still don’t eat meat. I still possess, and am pursuing, my artistic dreams and desires. I am not, and have never been, married and I possess no desire to have children. Is the latter selfish? To some maybe, to me it’s just honest. I still make mistakes that I don’t necessarily learn from and I still have many, many questions – some that I am almost certain will never be answered. According to my mother, I am still impulsive. This was recently said in a way that suggested perhaps I am getting a little too old to be this way inclined but it was not said with a vindictive tongue, just that of a caring and concerned mother. I guess mothers have a way about them, although I can only really vouch for my own. I love her dearly and I would have to suggest that she knows me better than anyone else, and, usually much to my dismay, perhaps even better than I know myself at times, which, on the other hand, can also be somewhat comforting on occasion.
Do I feel 33? What is 33 meant to feel like? I feel tired, mentally and physically, but not defeated or ungrateful. My body feels as though it has lived every moment of at least 33 years, but I say this not in a negative sense. Some days my physical aches and pains, which are neither great nor insignificant, remind me of how fortunate I am to have these 33 years under my belt and still be here. They, along with more pleasurable feelings can make me feel as though I have lived. I don’t like taking things forgranted, but I admit I often do.
I currently feel a little ‘in limbo’. I suppose it is not surprising given my current situation. That of having relocated to Osaka, Japan in early February this year. At the moment I am home, well, I am in Melbourne, the place I have at least always thought of as home. I have come here for two weeks due to my exhibition at Jackman Gallery, which opens next Wednesday evening, April 11. This will be my fifth consecutive year showing with them and as much as I am looking forward to again seeing a new body of work on their white walls I am feeling as though I am entering a transitional phase as an artist. I am in two minds about having an annual exhibitions in commercial galleries.
The art world is a funny place, not necessarily in a ‘ha ha’ way either. Being an artist can be incredibly trying at times and although there are times when doubt creeps in and I come close to taking on a defeatist’s attitude, I could not be any other way. It is a necessity for me to make art, even when I do not really like what I am creating. It is a process, something that is ever evolving. It is a passion. One that I cannot control, for it controls me. It is my life. I don’t know if anyone, other than another artist, can really understand this and other things involved with being such. Though I could be wrong. Passion covers much ground.
I am rambling, yes, but not whining. I can honestly say I am truly grateful to be in a position that allows me to explore and pursue the life of a so called artist. It is in no way glamorous but it is always interesting.
By no means do I consider myself a simple person, in fact I have been told by many that I am the complete opposite, that being complex. I do however, at times, desire the simple things in life. Even if just to give my over active mind and imagination a rest for a while. It does not often work. I laugh at myself sometimes, not out of humour, but for the fact that if I do not, I could cry. I think people have a tendency to take life too seriously at times, and I am certainly no exception. However, it is not my desire to be careless nor callus either. A good balance of frivolity and compassion would be desirable. Balance being the key word.
The words are stuck
To the inside of my skull
Though even if
They were to escape
They may possess no answers
Perhaps not even one single suggestion
They could perhaps
Be as useless
As words on a scrabble board
There for no other reason
Than a game
Such is life
One big game
And every day
Posted by Simone Maynard at 7:41 pm