Recent changes to my lifestyle, motivated by a deepening desire to attract the muse, has compelled a decision to create. To investigate the dark, mysterious and troubled corners of my Jungian shadow bag and express what I discover, intuitively, through art. No longer content with consuming popular culture, I am motivated to re-discover the joy I once intimately knew when making pictures was my raison d'être. Like an addiction to gambling, only with Time instead of with Money, I seek redemption in my practice. Yet, I am out of practice. The instrument is rusty and creaky, like a weathered old tractor left mid-harvest out in a back field. No solace is to be found denying the Calling, any longer. It will not quiet it's roar. The din grows louder and broader and my ears are ringing from years of having denied it proper due. Were I Bukowski, now would be time to dry up and write again, to say goodbye to lost nights spent hunched over a bar stool waiting for the muse to return. Waiting for the faithful departed to rest, waiting for lovers to awaken to long-lost love, waiting to wait out meaninglessness. And there is nothing to say that is louder than the neglect is silent. Time passing by, slipping away cannot be recaptured or rewound. I welcome the new day like a broken arrow re-feathered seeks it's bull's eye...
-Justin, via iPhone.
