how often in our lives do we find ourselves in the middle of a shit storm?
How often do we wake up so deep in the hard that our way out is obscured? That we can't remember the last time we felt ease of softness or joy?
How often to we find that voice in our head telling us we have broken something. That we are broken.
what i have learned from making art that often the mess is part of what makes things beautiful. If i didn't get a little paint on my hands i would not get the marks that add the depth. If i didn't smear that bit in the middle that the wild new idea would not have come to me.
What counts is letting go of the idea that everything will turn out well only if there is no mess involved.
I have never met a work of art, or a human soul that hadn't been through a mess to get to their beauty.