Again I ask myself, what of these strange drawings? Many years ago, I said they were all self-portraits. But now I wonder. Doesn’t that imply a bit too strongly that I existed prior to them, and that I am the one who made them, rather than the other way around? What seemed true then, feels much less so now. Might it not be that my existence was, and is, born of theirs? The same goes for the poems, stories, and other pieces of writing. It seems arrogant to say they exist because of me. If I am responsible for them, it’s more in the sense of being their shepherd and caretaker. I can’t say, with a straight face, I am their creator. I don’t disavow them, but I don’t own them either, these little sheep wandering the hillsides. Would I protect them from wolves? Certainly. But those who come to play and spend time with them as children, I would never chase away.
October 24, 2014