hungry for art

I don’t fall in love. I erode. not by force, but by remaining, letting time press its mouth against me.

There is a lack in me that does not announce itself. It doesn’t plead or dramatize. It waits. It adapts. It becomes usable. My own work passes near it and retreats. Everything I make hardens too quickly, as if warmth were never meant to stay, as if whatever I take from myself already knows how to leave.

So I turn elsewhere.

Eventually, something draws me in.

Unfinished, open where most things seal, carrying a tension that has not yet chosen between release and restraint. I don’t want to study it for long. I want to be near it, to know where it begins, which is not the same as possession.

I get closer than intention allows. I learn the rhythms where it slows, where it insists, how repetition graduates into emphasis. I notice how pain arranges itself, how, if held long enough, it almost becomes elegance.

Sometimes attention thickens. It stops being thought and becomes weight, alignment, a reply without a question.

For a moment, the work opens completely. Or perhaps I do. The difference feels beside the point.

It is relief. It is proximity mistaken for shelter.

Then the shape asserts itself. Edges return. The structure becomes visible again.

What once pulled now yields. What yields becomes manageable. What is manageable cannot hold.

Familiarity arrives quietly. not absence, but completion. And completion is death.

I withdraw without sound. Not abruptly, just enough to alter the temperature. By the time it is noticed, the room has already adjusted.

I take nothing that can be pointed to, only the sense of how it worked, already thinning, already insufficient.

I don’t believe this ever ends. No work, no body, no closeness remains unresolved long enough to hold me. I move through rooms that feel full until I learn their limits.

I am hungry for art. And I am tired of confusing the moment something opens with the moment I am fed.