My bathroom tiles are fine, thankyou. No, I would never have chosen them myself, but they are functional, easy to clean, unimportant in the grander scheme of things. In fact, until my visitor said "Well those bathroom tiles have got to go" I had even forgotten that I didn't particularly like them. They are a part of my home, they are comfortable in their ordinary ugliness.
It could be that my paintings are "cr.p", not what you perceive to be "fine art". I know that with time constraints they can be of variable quality. They are not what I was painting in NZ., but they bring a lot of pleasure to people. There is no path for antipodean artists here. I am walking, taking tiny steps. And if that means painting outside my field, painting commissions, learning new skills, then that is what I will do. When you learn to walk balance is important. I am still finding mine, but I think I am almost there. I will defend my position, and paint what I think is right for me now, an antipodean artist in a tiny mountain hamlet in Italy.
My "kitchen" cupboards DO have a system, they are organised. The organisation may be a little unconventional, with paints in the cupboards and food in plastic bins, but it works for me. Where things appear to be double-ups it is because the most used things are in the most convenient place - for me - while the surplus objects are down below where I have to bend to get them. Until my house is fully developed, things will remain a little unconventional, and most of the time that suits me just fine.
Yes, my cantina work is taking a long time. It should have been finished by now. But no, I will not complain, I will not sack my worker. I will appreciate how difficult the task is. I will value the care the worker is taking. I will enjoy each little step along the way. And, when I move in to my new rooms, I will rejoice all the more for having had to wait.
Yes, Zacchi is a scruff. There is not a doubt in my mind. But I do keep him clean, I do groom him, I do annoint his wounds. I purchase ointments, treatments, and even the occasional bone for him. I talk to him, I pat him. I do not, as so many on meeting him for the first time have assumed, neglect the little blighter. He is a mutt, a character, not a showpony. It is not I who rolls him in the sticky burrs, swishes his tail into dread-locks, ruffles his mixture of fur and dry stringy hair. The doors and gates are open, he is free to run. Yet right now he chooses to be curled up on his mat beside me; dishevelled, not neglected.
Yes, I choose to be less social at times, I decline interesting invitations. But that is because I am aware of how easy it would be to make a mistake, to offend, to get something wrong. If I am unsure, I err on the side of caution. I watch, I listen, I try to learn. Cultural difference is huge, and this village is small. I want to get it right. Respectful and submissive are different words, have different meanings. Assertion and aggression are different concepts too.
This afternoon I looked at some of my favourite quotes, important to me two years ago. Useful, but not so important to me now. I am in a very different place in my self-awareness.
Travellers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.
- Antonio Machado
Just living is not enough, said the Butterfly.
One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower.
- Hans Christian Anderson (1805-1875)
How does one become a butterfly?" she asked pensively. "You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar."
- Trina Paulus, Hope for the Flowers
I am walking, creating my own path. Sometimes butterflies accompany me. On the surface it may appear that I have gone back twenty years. That's OK too.
I may not know where I am going, but I know where I am. I am here, where the little flowers grow in the wild; bright colours emerging shyly from the rocks.
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