I wondered what artist must have felt, from their studios, during war times…if they felt any significance, to continue to carve at clay, to continue to shape, to continue to paint…
Hearts, beating in my head, like drums, you face it, you always must face it, carving your way through it, with ink and pain, bleeding out on this page…
You walk through grief…
There is no other way…
Even when it feels insignificant
Meaningless
——
Maybe this is how we love
Even when it feels meaningless
Even when we feel nothing
Maybe
This is how we live
How
The work must feel
Does it know it is art?
Does it breathe ?
Does it carry us with it?
Is it just clay
Ink
Paint
In a room –
Empty of us –
Empty ?
Or is it aware
Of the darkness in the earth
The grief
The pain
Our hearts slain
Bleeding out
Our voices
Silently screaming
This is the way
This is the way
Is a studio
Hearts beating
Against the night
Against the night
This is the way
-E
Regarding Samuel 