I’m not an artist. That title is best reserved for those who have completely given over their lives to creating and perfecting their craft at the expense of comfort and money and belonging. I hold that title in reverence. One that must be earned with years of dedication to a craft, to art.
So then what am I. I’m a work in progress, a dreamer, a time traveler. I dream of leading that hardscrabble meager existence full of easels and paints and brushes in a back alley studio in the Latin Quarter where I do nothing but create. I dream of a life of adventure and travel and seeing every color in the world. I dream of the African Savanna, ice on a black beach in Iceland and splashes of colour in India. My head is full of things I want to see; Mt Everest from base camp, moonrise in Antarctica, a 57 Chevy crusing the streets of Havana. I may not be an artist.... yet, but I am one hell of a dreamer.
The road; everything else is just waiting.