I love watching people and trying to figure out what makes them tick. It’s something I’ve always done. Except when it comes to myself. At least not that deep exploration that really digs way beneath the surface to find that “stuff” we’re all so good at burying.
Last Saturday a friend and I went to see the Jean-Michel Basquiat exhibit at the AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario). We also signed up for, and attended, an all-day symposium on the artist, his work, his influence (then and now) and his legacy.
Other than an hour of walking around studying his art early in the morning, we essentially sat in one place from 10:00 a.m. to almost 5:00 p.m.
Well, most people sat. I fidgeted.
Not because I was bored, although the afternoon panel of speakers didn’t exactly enthral me (or anyone else, for that matter from what I observed). Except for Thelma Golden, Director and Continue reading →
Yes, I am happy. Very happy. Jumping for joy happy. Nope, I did not win a lottery. This is better, actually. Yeah, better than winning a lottery. I may actually have talked about this before. Doesn’t matter. I’m gonna talk about it again. It’s different this time anyhow.
For at least the last twenty years I’ve wanted to write a book. Nothing to do with ego, I have just always thought there was one in me. God knows I tried. I gave myself headaches trying to come up with topics. I’d write a few sentences, maybe a paragraph or two, only to end up ripping the sheet of paper off the pad, crumpling it up in a ball and tossing it. I even took a book writing course, which I really enjoyed. Not that