Blogging has felt lately like a memory of something I used to do. I haven't stopped, but the gears aren't turning the way they used to and I have yet to figure out what that means. Am I uninspired? Is blogging done for me? Should I try a different approach? I know I'm not ready to strikethrough this whole thing and walk away. But I'm not sure what staying looks like. Maybe it will just be a slow death.
I looked at these paintings by Val Nelson tonight and thought, my home and life and way of being feels more like one of these paintings than it looks like any photograph. The ways in which I'm moved in life are less material, more embroiled. It's stuff that's hard to share here, where the moodboards and the curated lists reduce life to something attainable, shareable, somehow detached.
I don't want to deconstruct looks or blather on about the act of blogging. I want to live with blurry feelings and not lean on them to have a clever blogging hook. You know, birth and death and sorrow and sex and work happen too and it all gets left out here. And when all that stuff feels especially real and present, a blog post feels like a bit of a lie — a simplistic and fatuous sort of alternative reality. And I'm not up for that.
I'm up for these messy paintings of rooms where it looks like people fuck and cry and think and live all of life. I'm up for fictional stories that say something more true and moving and real than our primped and preened "real" blogs. And what does that mean for here? I still don't know. Maybe I just wanted to tell you that I like these paintings. And to give you some kind of warning about a potential retreat to a wordless and blurrier place.
A Room in Kent and The Room in Hampstead, both by Val Nelson, via Bau-Xi