I don’t paint for over a year.
I’ve never had blank page anxiety . I painted for two decades with constant waves. My imagination never forced… A canvas was moving from the previous one, which was never the same.
It was like an insatiable hunger. Sometimes this facility surprised myself . I thought that an angel who was guiding my hand. I was often tired, but I pretended to ignore it because the hunger required of me.
Unless it was not a requirement of the angel.
And then, one morning the angel left me. I don’t know for what mysterious reason.
This morning, like every morning, I regret the presence of the angel. I was in my painting with my characters. I felt pretty good in my stories, in my paintings, in my skin, in my mind… I was in heaven with my angel.
Now I am on the land… I’m with the land that I cultivate…I’m with the flowers that I talk to that time when I was a painter.
I am empty and I am filled with soil. Like every morning for over a year, the angel hasn’t heard my call. I look all painted canvas against the wall and blank canvas rolls. Art galleries offer me exhibitions that I refuse. I do not have the soul of an artist, but I have the soul of a gardener who cultivates the land and talks to flowers.
I am waiting for the angel to come back and guide my hand again.