Art's Loving Process
As an artist, the essence of the title eludes simple definition. In my youth, the early hours resonated with a creative calling, an invitation to joy and rejuvenation. Drawing at 5 am became a ritual—a communion with the morning, a prelude to the demands of the day. Over three decades later, I find myself on the same path. Life's obligations have led me astray, distancing me from my true vocation and passion. The exploration of colors, textures, forms, light, and spatial arrangement can be an arduous journey. Even securing a space within my home for artistic endeavors poses its challenges. I've engaged in prolonged dialogues and debates about art, only to abruptly shut down my creative pursuits for months. Love and hatred intertwine in this relationship. Society often views art as a mere hobby, but for me, it's a visceral force, a compulsion akin to a drug. I persist until satisfaction washes over me. Countless nights are spent scrutinizing works in progress or envisioning
