frantically practicing now for tomorrow night's performance. My house is a pit. I got a hundred of the dolls I've made back from a friend who'd had them to document for me and they are now added to the chaos in a huge plastic hopper I can't even get upstairs. There are about a dozen new drawings littering up the space, plus the sketches for three others and another huge one that's three-quarters done. I haven't done dishes in a week, and all my stuff from my trip and every pair of shoes I've worn to work for two weeks is in the mix. Plus the pencil sharpener opened up, spilling shavings all over the chair I sit in to draw.
It looks like an art supply store and clothing boutique exploded in here.
But there's always Sunday, right?
A performance matters more than a tidy space when one is an artist and lives alone. Still, I can't find anything and I'm driving myself crazy. Plus it's 104 degrees and I can't take Buster for long walks. Perhaps my normal routine will be restored next week?