The last time I picked up a paint brush was October 2010. I abandoned my studio. I was burnt out. Exhausted. Uninspired. I painted myself in a corner. I was out of ideas. Out of fuel. Out of passion. I stopped painting. I turned out the lights. The spark was dead. I was dead. Divorced from my creativity. Lost. Confused. My studio was a dark and lonely place. A desolate wasteland of dusty scraps of paper and naked pieces of wood. Brushes caked with dried paint. Strangled tubes of paint. Stacks of gutted books. A memorial of my dead creativity. A memory stain. A ghost. Sometimes guilt’s gravity would pull on me. Guilt would heckle me to paint again. I had grown fearful. Intimidated. Uncertain. The spark was dead. I had no more gasoline. No more fire. No purpose. No focus. No direction. I wanted to be reborn. I didn’t want to make the same brushstrokes. I wanted to explore new territory. I wanted to experiment. But my mind was blank. My soul empty. The spark was dead. Destination Unknown.
Now I chase the fire.