Saturday was a human day.
Friday was an art day, complete with visits to seven galleries, lunch in Chelsea with a sculptor, returning home to work in the studio for five hours. It was cold, rainy, windy and much of the art unrewarding. I blew through two umbrellas.
And Saturday was human. It began with a wakeup call, followed by coffee with my husband while watching the D-Day commemoration ceremonies. Of course we are 800 miles apart, and it was on the phone, but such is our Saturday routine. Then a long, long shower; a trip to the Farmer’s Market; reading in the sun on the lawn behind the library; and then a cook-out with new friends unrelated to art, where we talked about families, the news, the weather and donuts.
Although they wear the veil of inaccuracy displacement brings, I have come to count on rituals and routines such as grocery shopping and folding laundry to remind me of who I am in the world. Though I am a painter, it is the routine and sometimes mundane that centers my experience and ultimately informs the work I make.