When the cold water of surprise comes back into my work, I celebrate.

Creativity comes in seasons.

The more months go by that selling art takes more space than making it, the fewer words I have. This is normal; but it worries me.

I drive to Kilby to listen to a monologue on Emily Carr’s life. I sit in a plastic hour, trying to be inspired but honestly there are bees in the cherry trees and all I hear is the fifteen years of Emily’s life when she stopp…