Ok, so yeah I was honest. Brutally honest in my sum up the other day of how I feel now that I am away from the ecstatic embrace of our residency. Vacant, left wondering. Unable to focus too much on other projects as my mind keeps wandering back to what just happened. I haven’t had time to process any of it yet. What it means, what it says, whether we did what we said we were going to do. And also this one, resounding in my mind like a homing beacon – what does my sexuality have to do with this project? With my artwork? Why is it relevant? Is any of my art relevant? What am I doing? Argh! I look through my old blog entries on my website, ream after ream of self-analysis, self-discovery. What makes it art, instead of a narcissistic psychoanalysis of myself? Truthfully I don’t know. And I’m little concerned. I feel a need to search for meaning; I scour the works of others whose introspection is painted for all to see.  I struggle to come to terms with something I have been doing for years. Is it now breaking point?

Sometimes I feel like a writer or a poet. Can that be the same as an artist? How do their roles differ? Am I a visual author? What is a visual author? My mind is swimming in questions that are begging for my answer.