Real Life

Here’s what I like about being in the studio for a long time: after about three or four hours of quiet work, work that is full of hesitancy and indecision but also commitment and perseverance, suddenly, without warning, Real Work becomes a possibility. What does it take to get Real, I wonder?  It's as if someone has made an announcement: Everything that has gone before is NOT the Real Thing.  As in exercise, I might think I am exercising, but after twenty minutes or so of industrious muscle flexing, endorphins can suddenly be let loose and my opinions about exercise will entirely change. Usually for the better.  So too, after hours of continuous studio time, sometimes a beautiful door unexpectedly opens and I can see inside. The room is lit with summer sunshine with large windows open to the garden just beyond. There’s my real life, I murmur, as I clean brushes, unplug tubes of oil paint, hunt for palette knives fallen to the floor. There, where fountains make their dreamy music and dogs lie sleeping after a heavy lunch,  is a place where I could live forever.