The Table

Did I mention I bought a drafting table? No? Well, I did. From a perfectly delightful lesbian, with exquisite tats up and down her forearms and warm green eyes. She was moving out of her partner's home, not really splitting up, just taking space, and needed to get rid of the table. Why? Long story: change of creative focus from plastic to electronic. Drafting tables don't lend themselves to desktop editing systems, blah, blah. What does she have to do with this posting? Nothing really. A diversion so I don't have to admit the truth that one can stumble on the most beautiful of tables - and it really is a beaut, with its old-style tilting wheels and real wood surfaces textured already with the act of art - but no amount of money or lucky timing will turn up inspiration. Yep. Dry as bone. I sit at this lovely thing and wait. Still, I'm not particularly worried. I suppose it will come if it must. Why shouldn't I be barren for a year or more? There's no rule that says otherwise. Expectations are fairly unsettling. T occasionally mentions how he's waiting for my artwork to make us millionaires. He's sort of joking, I know - but just sort of. The minute you identify yourself as an artist - of any kind - expectations arise. And judgements. I hesitated to describe myself as an actor when I was one; I hesitated to describe myself as a writer when I was fiddling with that; I hesitate to describe myself as an artist now. (What's that? Hesitation has been the only constant in my creative life? Yes, you make a good point.) Why bring it up at all then, if I'm so conflicted? I just wanted to tell you about my beautiful new drafting table, that's all....