Perhaps the quality of the attention one brings to bear on something will be better (less contaminated, less distracted), the less one is offered. Furnished with impoverished art, purged by silence, one might then be able to begin to transcend the frustrating selectivity of attention, with its inevitable distortions of experience. Ideally, one should be able to pay attention to everything. —Susan Sontag, from The Aesthetics of Silence
I read this excerpt recently on painter Richard Kooyman’s website (go visit—and while you’re there, admire his recent poem of a painting, Hemlock Leaves), and it resonated deeply. My own creative attention has shifted in an interesting way over the past couple of months, following the discontinuation of some everyday dopamine-seeking habits.
Innocuous as they may have seemed, each behavior has left in its wake a parcel of open space in my brain, a subtle lightness I didn’t know I was missing. Though I’m certainly filling that space with some alternative attentions, the overall quietness persists and is inviting me somewhere new.
A graceful found line, observed on a neighborhood walk this week
Within this quieter mental space, I’ve had the fortune to put together somewhat of an art staycation this month. That is, a couple of consecutive days where I’m not commuting, or teaching, or heavy-duty parenting. A small string of unfancy, immersive days where I can pare down my attention to focus on the half-finished paintings I’ve generated over the past year, and perhaps even resolve a few.
Some works in progress on cradled birch panels, each 30 x 24 inches
Given my day job (teaching) and my morning / evening / weekend job (momming), this is the studio rhythm I’ve come to accept. A seasonal deep dive where I can hyperfocus, versus snippets of art attention tucked into the day-to-day. Though I may still achieve a sketchbook habit someday, when it comes to art-making my brain seems to do better with depth than with frequency. Yes, my art practice is woven into daily life, but more so in the form of observation and creative research than in production. Actually, Jodi Hays wrote an incredible newsletter on this topic recently, as it relates to artists outside the white-male-artistic-genius box: “What’s up with all the white trucks?” I am still thinking about it, and not only because she jostled the pedestal upon which one of my poetic heroes sits.
So I write to you this week, grateful for a brief but meaningful quality of studio time. Grateful for a new purge of soft silence that surrounds it, and for the opportunity to open my attention fully. And of course, grateful for your interest in these artistic pursuits. Thank you for traveling alongside me on this twisty path—let’s see where it leads next, eh?