Gulls and buoys.

Sleep is of the essence this night, yet it has slipped out the door like a stranger in the darkest hours of the night just when I need it most. Need it best. Sleep is drug to me, it is always an upper no matter what hour of the day or night; it feeds me and fills me in a way that no amount of water or french kisses or mama's cooking can. I am a sleeper, but not this night.

My mind is aflutter with flashes of faces, arms, limbs, dark, light, hair, and skin skin skin. Lots of skin, flashing across the backs my sleepless eyelids like a gaggle of white gulls. Like a projection onto deep red velvet curtains. I don't know what this means but I have made a conscious effort not to block it out. Play on, and so it does. It is just recent that I have begun to experience said flashbacks. Usually they are ones stemmed from events or memories of remorse and/or regret, but not these latest ones. They are borderline sexy, but not too sexy. All in all, I think I make too many decisions when sleep deprivation has robbed me of the usual good judgement that exists in my normal daytime routine. Maybe not, I am tired as I write and therefore the above paragraph is meaningless and null.

There has been very little that has pulled me in the direction of computer or canvas or drawing pad of late, albeit summer is always a positive time in my life-- I just feel quite the opposite of inspired. Positivity is high, yes; but I can't help but feel the wet blanket of doom nearing closer and closer thanks to summer's unavoidable end. I had a wild few weeks of photography with rolls and rolls of film forming tiny mountain ranges on my bedside table in July but there has been nothing catching my eye since the arrival of August. Leigh introduced me to a new website created by a man named Todd Selby that showcases the inside bones of homes of various artists, directors, shop owners et al in and about New York and LA. For the first time in a month, my inner artist jump started back to life. To be frank, I just spent the last two hours drinking tepid coffee and scouring about thirty pages worth of strangers homes on the internet. My social life is wild! In other words, I think it is time to make some art.

The other day over breakfast at the Nook (one of my all time favorite Sunday morning greasy spoons) I had a conversation with my friend Josh about art and being an artist. What qualifies one as an artist? For the first time in my life I said "I am an artist" aloud and it was terrifying knowing that the last time I cranked out a canvas worth hanging was in 2005, knowing my easel has sat neglected for the past year and a half, knowing my camera is getting dusty, knowing I have about fifteen Moleskins half heartedly filled. Yet saying the words, I believed them and it felt good. So what makes one an artist? It is neither quality or quantity in my opinion, it is passion and approach. I like to write, I rarely draw even though I like it, I would like to sculpt someday but have never tried, and I really like to take photographs but have neither the time or patience to hone any of these interests. Even so, so long as there is passion and an unapologetic modus operandi as the Latin might mumble (or 'way of operating') I think one is an artist.

When it comes to photography, I think my shots are shit. But it is the gift of establishing some sort of level of comfort or trust with subject that comes naturally to me. To me, it is the small accomplishments like making a baby laugh in the arms of her wedding clothed parents, or the softness in the eyes of the poolside kid with the dirty mouth; the technical side is a foreign language. I am hoping the rest will fall into place. I see so much of a variation of this gift in my friends. Without knowing, half of them, majority of them are carving out their perfect niches in careers unbeknownst to them just by living, by making, by writing, by playing chess, by cooking, by baking, by sewing, by watching, by faking (it), by serving, by singing, by giving and by being. It is exciting to watch and it is exciting to photograph.

I feel better about August now. Oh, in other news, I have washed my hands of any and all potential blind dates from here on in. I refuse to be the kind of lady that needs a bareback picture or an anonymous rose or a forced dinner date to make an acquaintance. I have also washed my hands of gin martinis on first dates (for the time being) and dissatisfying jobs. I am also washing my hands of negativity and moderation.

The other day, Janique and I were walking arm in arm and she asked with round eyes "Meg, do you think that if one thinks only positive thoughts, good things will come of it?". Yes my dear, I do. The photographs below warm my heart and are the direction I would like to go save for a little more nakedness.