I return to the work, bringing what I have learned from the parts that refused to come easily when my limitations became impossible to ignore,
I return to the work, making something well asks me to become more attentive than I sometimes feel capable of becoming,
I return to the work, carrying the irritation of knowing that skill is built through repetition long after the excitement that brought me there has faded,
I return to the work, can I keep caring about the details when nobody is rewarding me for noticing them,
I return to the work, beyond deep work I realize that what I am shaping is quietly shaping me too…
I notice what my hands choose, even when I cannot explain why one line feels right, one detail unnecessary, or something I once loved suddenly no longer belongs,
I notice what my hands choose, trusting that my taste has been shaped by everything I have seen, felt, made, and carried before this moment,
I notice what my hands choose, I want to understand myself clearly before allowing the work to reveal me and my capability,
I notice what my hands choose, when I look honestly at what I have made, do I recognize something consciously put there,
I notice what my hands choose, and the work begins showing me more of myself than I intended to leave behind…
I resist imitation, not because I am untouched by what I admire but because everything that reaches my hands must pass through me,
I resist imitation, feeling the tension between wanting to learn from what moves me as fear disappears inside what I admire,
I resist imitation, allowing myself to borrow, practice, experiment, and wander without demanding that my own voice arrive fully formed before I have earned the right to hear it,
I resist imitation, when I make something influenced by what I love, do I still leave enough room for my own way to appear,
I resist imitation, as I continue to make the difference begins revealing itself without my having to force it…
I bring myself to the page, the image, the object, whatever form is asking for my attention, even when part of me wants to immediately understand,
I bring myself to the page, knowing that the more I control how others should receive, the more I edit away the strange personal parts that made me want to create it,
I bring myself to the page, accepting that someone may see something completely different from what I intended but still continue to create,
I bring myself to the page, can I let someone experience my work differently without feeling they have misunderstood the part of me I was trying to share,
I bring myself to the page, the work becomes a place where another person can meet and it only needs to leave enough truth for someone else to recognize their own…
Watchwords:
The thing I am shaping shapes me
What my hands choose
My way of seeing
I bring myself to the page
A place to meet themselves
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream: