I used to write a lot of stuff in Spanish… poetry mostly; there was a time that was the only way I felt safe connecting with that part of me; in private – in notebooks.
I found something late last year that while unpacking a box from my childhood home. It was a draft of something I never really finished, but it somehow survived my creativity destructive phase in college. It tore me to pieces to reread it.
So confused. So lost.
The thing is, it’s ringing very true to me at this moment. It was about 20 lines of “being who you are” teenage angst. This line in particular gets to me right now, however trite:
“El arte no viene de mi. Viene a traves de mi.”
I sketched out an idea for a project based on this line and have been tooling around with it since. I have until the end of the month to get it done enough to submit it for consideration to participate in a show.
This one feels important, somehow. So I’m heads down for a bit.
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